


The Cheese Stands Alone

by mycrofts_brolly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drinking problems, Emotional Trauma, F/M, First Kiss, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Mycroft is a Softie, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parentlock, Post Season 4, Post-The Final Problem, Protective Greg, Rating May Change, Rebuilding Baker Street, Season 4 ending fix it, Slow Burn, Slow Updates, everything will be okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9358781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycrofts_brolly/pseuds/mycrofts_brolly
Summary: After the Eurus Incident, the Holmes brothers and their friends are left on shaky and uncertain ground. Gregory Lestrade sets out to help Mycroft after Sherlock urges him to do so, and finds himself in dark territory. A series of dangerous events force the DI, the British Government, and the detective with his John and Rosie to a safe house. As things grow complicated, a few questions remain. Is Moriarty truly dead? If so, who's pulling the strings now if it's not Eurus? What happens during the after?





	1. The Phone Call

**Author's Note:**

> So, that was quite the finale. And hopefully this gives the ending a bit more life to how open ended it actually was. Spoilers for The Final Problem, and maybe I can do the episode some justice. See you at the other side!

“Um… Mycroft… Make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is.” With the sirens in the background and the helicopter blades cutting the air, Gregory Lestrade barely heard what Sherlock had said. 

He nodded anyways, head still spinning from the day’s events. Wasn't everyday he got a call telling him to go to some secret island in the middle of nowhere to rescue the British Government himself from a cell. Mycroft had been clearly shaken. The image of Mycroft whiter than a bed sheet and shaking horribly told Gregory all he wanted to know about what had happened. “Yeah, I'll take care of it.” He murmured back over his shoulder. 

Greg walked back towards his cruiser only to hear another officer, “Is that him, sir? Sherlock Holmes?” 

Pausing, Greg glanced back to the detective, then to the officer, “Fan, are you?” He asked, curious as to why the question was asked. Sherlock  stood out like a sore thumb and it was hard to miss him or mistake him for another. 

“Well, he's a great man.” The officer stated. 

The DI smiled faintly and shook his head in answer. There was a lot on his mind right now, but Gregory knew one thing for certain, “No, he's better than that. He's a good one.” Sherlock stared at him. 

Now, he had somewhere to be and soon. His phone beeped demandingly from his jacket. “Yea, yea, just a second.” After everything that he had learned that day, the last thing Gregory wanted to do was answer a phone call from the Yard to handle another case. Hell, his hands were still shaking inside his jacket from seeing John in that well. The stench of the water still clung to Gregory’s jacket. And the child’s bones… 

Gregory sighed as he slipped into the car. For a moment he rested his head on the steering wheel while trying to rein in his emotions and reactions. It had started with Baker Street going up in flames and the disappearance of the two Holmes and John. It was strange enough that Mycroft was  gone after the blast as well, but the fact that not even Anthea, if that was her name, could find the trio added to the worry. Then Molly had called absolutely hysterical and going on about Sherlock being in danger. Well, no shit, Greg had been telling himself that after he'd arrived at the ashes that had been Baker Street. But he hadn't exactly been expecting to find John half-drowned in a well near the burnt husk of the Holmes’ ancestral house, or Mycroft cowering in one corner of a high security cell on an island. It seemed like the world has fallen apart under Greg’s feet without him even knowing it. 

Hands shaking, Gregory turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life and as it sat there and idled, Greg pulled out his phone to see what had set it off just a few minutes earlier. It was Molly. 

Redialing, Greg rested his head on his hands on the steering wheel. This call was just one more thing to get off his plate before he could lay down and not feel as if he was standing on unsteady ground. 

“G-Gregory?” Molly’s voice carried through the speaker just as shaken as Greg had remembered it being earlier.

“Yeah, it's me.  How are you doing?” Running a hand through his hair, Greg’s eyes wandered to the helicopter that lifted off with who was apparently the third Holmes, who happened to be the reason behind this entire mess. He shook his head.

Molly took a moment to answer and it was hard for Greg to place her voice, “I’m… Alright. It’s been a day, hasn't it?” She sighed, and hesitated, “How are they?” 

The question took Gregory by surprise, “They're… Alive. John was in a well that had a child’s bones in it. He’s shaken up, drenched, and it seems Eurus tried to drown him to get to…” He trailed off. Molly had told him about the phone call, what Sherlock had done to her, what had been said. Those were not words someone could take back.

“You can say his name, Greg. It was, in the end, a code.” More uncertainty. Gregory shut his eyes for a moment. Maybe if he shut them long enough, he'd wake up from this nightmare. 

“I know it was, but those words carry weight. He's going to apologize to you, even if I have to drag him by his collar to the morgue. Or if John and I and Mycroft have to. And Mrs. Hudson and that car of hers. We’ll stow him away in the boot again.” There was a light of humor to Greg’s voice. He hoped it helped soothe the wounds Molly carried.

The line was quiet for a moment but when Molly spoke next, Greg could hear the trace of her smile in her voice, “Thank you, Greg. I'll put it on the calendar for next Monday, and I'll make sure to have the time open in the morgue.” Greg chuckled, but Molly continued, “Speaking of Mycroft, what happened to him? He's alive, right?” 

Gregory nodded even though something nagged at him saying Molly couldn't see it, “We found him in a cell on Sherrinford. He's… Worse than I've ever seen him;  even the day after Sherlock’s death wasn't this bad for him. Sherlock told me to go watch him. Make sure things were okay. He kept saying he had five peoples’ blood on his hands, and there were five bodies. He's blaming this entire shit storm on himself. And it isn't his fault… They were manipulated.” 

“That's a lot of guilt to carry on one set of shoulders, Greg. I may not be a genius like those Holmes, and I may not be on that island or at that house, but I can say that those three shouldn't be alone right now.” Molly paused, and Greg could hear the kettle whistle distantly. “Just a second.”

“Not a problem, Mols.” The line went relatively quiet besides the sound of Molly walking away from the phone. Gregory waited, his mind an island caught up in a typhoon of thoughts. The night wasn't over yet. 

There was a clattering on the other end, “Hey, I'm back.” Molly resumed speaking and Greg listened as he watched the officers remaining on site mill around, “As I was saying, those three shouldn't be alone. John and Sherlock have each other,  but who has Mycroft got, Greg? The writing on the wall? Look,” She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. Greg wondered exactly where this was going, “He needs someone like you. You helped Sherlock, of all people, get off the street and stabilized him. You have a way with people, like I have my way with the bodies-“

“Mols, don't do that to yourself. You're a wonderful friend, and a fantastic-“

Molly cut him off with an iron voice that made Gregory blink a few times, “This isn't about me! It's never about me.” Gregory pulled the phone away from his ear as the iron in her tone gave away to something far more human and far more pained. He hoped he never had to hear that again in her voice. “But that's… Alright. Anyways. Anyone in this situation would need a friend, and we both know the Holmes aren't typically the ones for friends. But I've seen him in your office a few times, seen the way he appears more… Human. You're his friend, even if he won't admit it to himself. I think Sherlock knows that too.”

“I… This was a personal family matter, Molly. I can't just walk up to his doorstep and say hey ‘your sister just murdered five people and tried to kill John and you, and I don't know what’s going on in that big, British Government mind of yours but I'm here for you’!” There was a sense of hopelessness in Gregory’s chest that was fueled by fear and a feeling of insignificance. And it showed in his voice, in the tapping his fingers were doing on the dashboard that he didn't even know he was doing until the noise dragged him back to reality. He stopped tapping. “It just sounds… Creepy.”

“It’s not creepy! It's a bit forwards, but you can't deny that he needs a shoulder to lean on right now. If I was in his situation, I'd want someone there for me. Even if it was just a cheap drink- Wait, no, forget the drinks. Alcohol and emotions don't mix well.” Molly laughed uneasily, as if she'd told a bad joke and Gregory felt a pang of concern. “Bring over some tea from your apartment, maybe some food and just check in on him. You don't need to press the subject, annoy him for details. That's not you anyways. Why worry about something I know you'd never do?” 

Gregory was quiet. She was right, and he knew it from his greyed hair to his worn three days straight socks and aching feet. 

Molly continued, “Remember the end of that rhyme? The Farmer in the Dell? Don't let the cheese stand alone.” She set the phone down to get a sip of tea before returning to a still quiet and processing DI, “Greg, I think you should take the next few days off. Make sure you're alright and everyone else involved in this fiasco is okay. I'm sure the paperwork for this one will be handled by tomorrow morning, and discretely too, especially if the Holmes were involved, so you don't have to worry about that at least.” 

“You're right.” Molly’s words had gotten through to Greg. He leaned back in the seat of the car as the engine hummed. The whole event felt like something straight out of a SAW movie, and Greg couldn't even begin to think of what a complicated and logical brain like Mycroft’s was experiencing right now. The pain…. “I'll head over to Mycroft’s place from here and hopefully pass somewhere to buy some tea or something. Thank you, Molly.”

Molly hummed her approval over the line, “You're welcome Greg. Drive safe, and don't forget that I'm expecting a Sherlock in a boot next week!” 

“Take care, Molly.”

“You too, Greg. See you.” 

With the sound of the line cutting off, Gregory put his phone back into his pocket and threw the car into drive. He had a bit of a ways to go before he reached Mycroft’s house. He just hoped he'd been there in time to prevent the worst.


	2. 99 Bottles of Beer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates should happen every four to five days, I hope. I also write this on mobile, for some reason, so odd spelling errors are bound to occur. Enjoy!
> 
> tick tock  
> tick  
> tock

Two hours later, Gregory had finally come across a store along the way to Mycroft’s. He sighed in relief as the lights illuminated the inside of his car and he pulled up slowly. There was a single man behind the counter inside and the entire place looked a little run down, but there was enough in stock to provide Greg a few minutes’ relief from the road. 

The DI almost stumbled from his car with a cuss. The drive had left his legs weak. The day had left his mind even weaker. 

He trudged into the store, blinking rapidly as the white lights blinded him momentarily. The store clerk eyed him funny. Tugging the collar of his jacket tighter, Greg huffed and ignored the odd stared he got. Surely the wear and tear of the last twenty four hours didn't show that easily on him? Greg couldn't even imagine what Mycroft was going through. 

A few moments of useless wandering through various shelves later and Greg had an arm full of various teas and chocolates and cheap snacks. Mycroft probably wouldn't even touch those with his fancy umbrella sword, but Gregory had partially grabbed them to ease his hunger. He wasn't even sure if it was hunger making his stomach churn or if it was the fact that his nerves were eating him as he made his way to the front of the store to pay for the items. 

Mycroft might not even be at his house when Greg got there. Greg hoped he was. Or else it would be a mad hunt for the man who could likely be unstable and unsteady, and God only knows what someone with that level of intellect under that much stress and strain would do if he blamed himself. The DI almost didn't want to think about it, but everything had to be considered. Maybe he should text Anthea and ask her about..

“Sir?” The man behind the counter, a scrawny thing with a bear that was half grown, eyes dull and tired, was waving his hand back and forth near Greg’s face, “Are you going to pay?”

Gregory snapped from his thoughts, “Oh, yeah, sorry.” He set the tea containers and the comfort food on the counter. As the items were rung up, he dug through his coat pocket for his wallet, drawing out the worn leather bound wallet after almost removing the various trinkets that had accumulated there. He set the cash for the items on the counter as the total cost appeared. The cashier didn't hesitate in taking it, ringing everything up, and then sorting out change for the tired, worn DI. Recognition flickered in the cashier’s eyes, “You're that bloke that works with Sherlock Holmes aren't you? Not Watson… But the Yard? Lestrade?” Greg paused in grabbing his items from the counter. It wasn't often someone recognized him. “You told people not to kill themselves, yeah? In that ridiculous-“

“Yeah, that was me.” The bag of tea and food was light compared to the weight of the dread in Greg’s eyes. That hadn't been his best press release, to say the least. “I'd had a long shift before that and wasn't thinking clearly.”

The cashier nodded, “That I can understand. Glad to see you're still around.”

Gregory had a deadpan expression on his face. The day had worn him to the bone, and he still had another half hour to drive before he reached Mycroft’s. “Thanks. Have a good night.” Waving a brief, slightly cold, goodbye, Greg left the station and headed out to his car in the crisp night air.

Throwing open the door and tossing the bag of food items into the passenger side, Greg took a moment to actually understand the time that the clock read. “How the hell is it two am?” He muttered, turning the key in the ignition and throwing it into drive, “Doesn't even feel like it's that late.” He was muttering to himself. Maybe he was starting to go mad from the lack of sleep.

Despite Greg’s protesting of the time, it continued to move on. The clock flashed through numbers as Greg drove along the roads back to London and lost track of time. He virtually lost track of his own self, existing only in brief thoughts and mutters as he focused on driving safely back. Most of these rouge thoughts consisted of worries. Worries about Mycroft, Sherlock and John, John’s baby, Molly, the men and women who'd died in the past day from Eurus, and about the stability of everything around him. How could he possibly help anyone if he was in the dark on what felt like, at times, absolutely everything pivotal? What use was an officer who couldn't defend his friends and coworkers and the innocent from someone who could manipulate people with only her voice into mindless little bugs under her thumb? When did he become so… Useless? Meaningless? He sighed, knowing that his pain and frustration wasn't the main issue right now and went back to tuning out his thoughts with some older punk rock that brought back memories from before he'd been a detective and caught up in all this Holmes business. 

The driveway to Mycroft’s house was blocked off by an imposing metal gate that towered over even the shrubbery. Greg put the engine to idle as he parked it, and put the window down. The intercom buzzed at him rudely and Greg found he wasn't in the mood for it as he violently pushed the buttons in to open the gate. 

It opened silently. There was no doubt it was well oiled and prepared for visitors. The driveway up to the looming mansion was typically one that Greg took when worried for Sherlock, not Mycroft, or when Mycroft called him up for their bimonthly meetings. 

Yet, he still never got used to the mansion that sat on top of the slight hill just outside of London. It was something that was a stark reminder of how different he was from the Holmes that had tangled themselves into his life. Whether they had been tangled in as burrs or just harmless yarn that occasionally complicated his life was always up for debate. The mansion was a traditional style to the house that was complete with massive shaded windows, large oak doors, and hallways lined with portraits. It was a wonder, Greg knew, one that he'd only have the privilege of visiting. Not that he'd ever want to own a giant empty house, alone. Which was another reason why he worried for the lonely Mycroft up in this solitary castle of his. The loneliness was enough to drive anyone crazy.

It wasn't until he'd pulled around the bend in the driveway that he spotted the small unmarked government car idling next to the steps. There were only a few people Greg knew of from his meetings with Mycroft that would be here at this hour. Anthea maybe? He parked his car behind the other and stepped out. 

Rounding to the passenger side, Greg grabbed the bag of various goodies. It was then that he heard the front door shut furiously. The noise of the massive door slamming shut startled him and he dropped the bag of tea and food to the pavement with a yelp, “The hell do you think you're doing slamming doors like that, Anthea?”

He could feel someone standing behind him as he bent over to grab the bag he'd dropped. “I’m not Anthea, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” The voice was female and Greg bolted up and around. He came face to face with a woman he didn't recognize from meeting in person, but she was someone who he had heard of. What the hell was she doing here? “And I hope you're not visiting that drunkard inside. He’s in a raging silent fit in there. Couldn't talk sense into that one.”

“Lady Smallwood, I'm sure you couldn't talk sense to a dog. Now, I've got a friend’s brother to check in on, so if you wouldn't mind moving out of the way…” Gregory really wasn't in the mood for this right now. Lady Smallwood didn't move. It really wasn't Gregory’s day. 

The government official huffed, folding her arms over her jacket that was probably pricier than Greg’s car, “I just thought I'd warn you.” She finally moved away towards her car. Believing he was free of her presence as he heard the car door open, Gregory headed up the stairs to the door, “Oh, Detective Inspector.” Greg paused, turning his shoulders to glance down with tired eyes, “Be prepared for the worst. He's not the man you think he is.” She gracefully sat into the seat, closed the door, and drove off. 

“Not the man I think he is my ass.” Gregory muttered. He opened the door and immediately heard an odd, desperate keening noise that echoed throughout the otherwise empty house. He froze. That was a pained noise that made his heart twist unpleasantly. And that was coming from Mycroft. Jesus. That was not a sound someone should be making. Slowly, Greg closed the door behind him and started off to find where Mycroft was. “Mycroft?... Hello?” Continuing to call for Mycroft while moving throughout the house, Gregory wandered through the kitchen. There was an empty whisky bottle of some brand Gregory only knew instinctually was expensive and several shot glasses full of God knew what. “God.” He sighed. This wasn't looking great. He continued through the stainless steel fashioned kitchen and into the living room that was suspiciously empty despite the large leather couches. The wailing was growing closer. 

Passing up the stairway and by the portraits of Holmes Gregory had the pleasure of never having to meet, Gregory spotted a figure silhouetted by a single light at the large wooden desk in the office on the hallway’s end. Mycroft, with his head in his hands and a bottle of something strong next to him. Greg continued down the hallway, anxiety flooding him as if he was approaching a cornered animal. He hesitated at the doorway, the bag in his hand crinkling as he entered the room. 

Mycroft stopped.

“Mycroft?” With an even voice, Gregory entered the room slowly. His footsteps were light on the floor as he crossed over towards the desk. He wasn't entirely aware of it but his heart was hammering in his chest. 

“What are you doing here?” There was a tinge of frustration and denial in Mycroft’s tone that made Gregory frown. This was going to be battle to get Mycroft to accept help. Well aware that Mycroft helped but never accepted it, Gregory was prepared. 

Gregory stood across the desk from Mycroft who had still refused to lift his head from his hands. He set the bag down carefully, emptying the contents one by one. He named them off as he did so, “Three things of different varieties of teas, crisps, some Lindt chocolates, Cadbury chocolates, Maltesers, and Jammie Dodgers. Wasn't sure what to grab, but I’ll have to get you some water too. Then some pills for that headache that's going-“

There was a stern look from Mycroft as he removed his hands from his face. Streaks of tears ran from his bright red, puffy eyes that were unfocused enough to make it clear Mycroft was drunk, “No. What are you doing? I didn't ask you what you brought.”

“Alright.” Gregory was caught between fighting Mycroft’s stubbornness back, and being overly warm. Hopefully he could get a middle ground in this standoff, “I came to check on you. Sherlock was concerned and advised me to check on you.” He admitted to it. Lies were not what Mycroft needed right now. 

The man across the counter started to fix up his unkempt and damp suit, “Sherlock… Sherlock should keep to himself now. You have no business being here. Get out.” 

“No. And no.” Gregory huffed, “Your brother is concerned for you, even after everything. He didn't want you to be alone right now. I don't-“

“Detective, stop.” Mycroft’s voice was strained but his eyes betrayed how tired he actually was. His hands trembled, his eyes unfocused themselves, and his body swayed back and forth in the chair. The façade that Mycroft had put up of being okay and not needing help was fracturing with every second that Greg remained in that room. 

Opening a bag of crisps, Gregory set them down in front of Mycroft, “Not stopping. And please, Mycroft, just listen.” Mycroft gave him a look, but Gregory continued as he remained silent, “I don't know what you went through, and I'll be honest, I hope I never have to. But you're not going to be alone. I'm you're friend, and friends are there for friends.” He tried his best to keep his words kind without bringing up blame or what had happened. He didn't need Mycroft going into a drunken fit and disregarding everything Gregory had said, no, he needed Mycroft to let him help him. At least for tonight. “I've brought some snacks and comfort food. Molly approved.” Offering a faint smile, Gregory went on, “And I'm Sherlock approved. You can't be alone right now, Mycroft, no one could be alone right now.”

“I don't have a choice in this, do I?”’ Glancing up at Gregory, Mycroft’s eyes wandered to the opened bag of crisps sitting just a few inches from him. 

No, you don't, British Government. Gregory chuckled, “Not this time, not with this. Now, can I get you anything?”

Mycroft seemed to have something on his mind as he hesitated in replying for a moment. He sighed, and nodded weakly, “I hate admitting this. Drinking makes my mouth move to every thought I have, like I've lost a filter.” He grumbled and eyed the crisps with a nauseous expression that made Greg’s stomach even churn, “I need help getting to the bathroom.”

It took Gregory a moment to process it, but between the sickened look to Mycroft’s pale skin, and Mycroft’s wording, it only took Greg a second to cross around to Mycroft and offer a hand, “Okay, yeah. I got that message. Let's get you down the hallway before you ruin the carpeting.”

Taking the hand, Mycroft trembled as he stood up. Greg steadied him. “Fantastic wording, Detective Inspector.”

“No filter and you still call me Detective Inspector. It's Greg.” Slowly, Greg lead them step by step around the desk, “Not Gavin. Definitely not Gavin.”

Mycroft managed a soft chuckle, hiccuping. Gregory wondered just how much Mycroft would remember of this conversation in the morning. Hopefully, just enough of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering why Mycroft gave in so easily to help- He's drunk. And a softie. It'll be different in the morning, I promise eue


	3. Little Lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy snicker doodles this took longer than I thought.  
> Drunk Mycroft and Greg fight the all might stairs and emotions.

Gregory eased Mycroft down the hallway. Portraits of long gone Holmeses stared at the odd pair as Mycroft leaned into Gregory’s shoulder. Mycroft’s feet didn't seem to know what to do with themselves as Mycroft stumbled back and forth on the carpet, and Gregory had to compensate for this drunken dance as best he could with his own wobbly gait. Part of Gregory couldn't believe that Sherlock’s brother had drank himself down this far, but with what he knew of Eurus and the Sherrinford incident, Gregory was more surprised that Mycroft hadn't resorted, thankfully, to more drastic measures. A drunk Mycroft he could handle. A drugged, dead, or missing one… Not so much. 

Mumbling, Mycroft made a face of relief when the bathroom was within sight, “Thank god. I wasn't sure we’d make it in time.” Not having to ask what he meant by ‘in time’, Gregory lifted more of Mycroft’s weight onto his shoulder and hurried forwards. 

The pair almost fell into the sparsely decorated, or used, bathroom. Mycroft collapsed onto the open toilet bowl, arms splayed out clumsily on the bowl’s rim. It was a stark contrast between the suited, wrecked man, and the utilitarian bathroom that was a crisp white from the ceiling to the shower curtain to the tiling with not a single piece of decoration out of place. The room was one designed for quick use and not much else. 

Standing behind Mycroft with a single hand on Mycroft’s heaving shoulder, Gregory wasn’t entirely sure how to provide help or react. Sure, he'd been with plenty of other people in this same predicament since he was a teenager, but he'd never been in a situation like this with someone who had almost always kept him at an arm’s length with a cold shoulder. They'd had their meetings over Sherlock, yes, but they had never gotten to be anything more than casual acquaintances. There wasn't anything wrong with that, but the moment Gregory was currently in, gazing down at a drunk Mycroft after the events of the past twenty four hours, left him confused. Why had Sherlock sent him to Mycroft’s? Why not send Anthea, or one of Mycroft’s lackeys or a friend from Mycroft’s work? Surely the man who was limply splayed out on a the ceramic throne’s bowl had someone closer to him than one DI Lestrade. It was a peculiar request that Gregory hadn't given much thought to since he'd left the crime scene. Now, however, with a fragile and vulnerable Mycroft in front of him, Gregory had questions rising faster than floodwater. 

“Gregory… Would you be able to fetch some water from the sink? I'm afraid there's a horrible taste in my mouth from that.” Mycroft's voice was weak, ragged and tired as he slumped forwards slightly into the mouth of the toilet. Gregory flinched from his thoughts and nodded, sidestepping around Mycroft to get to the sink and grab the cup from the counter. He filled it and then kneeled beside Mycroft with concerned eyes. 

Handing the cup of water to Mycroft, Gregory could smell the vomit but he didn't comment on it, “Stomach better?” He asked, watching as his charge took the cup and downed the water hesitantly at first than all at once. Mycroft managed a weak nod. “Alright. If you think you're better now, you should head to bed. It's past four am, and you're going to have a killer headache when you wake up from.. Everything.”   
“I'm aware.” Sounding defeated, Mycroft pushed himself off of the toilet bowl with trembling arms, “You have a long night ahead of you, Gregory.” For a moment, Gregory wasn't sure if he heard Mycroft correctly. The tone of Mycroft’s voice when he spoke sounded… Apology to. Guilty, even. 

Greg shook his head, scooting in closer to wrap an arm around Mycroft to help him up, “Don't apologize, Mycroft. I did this on my own accord.” The two stood on feet that were half unsteady. Reaching out to keep them upright, Gregory managed to right their balance by using the kitchen sink. He flushed the vile mess in the toilet away, noticing that Mycroft glanced away with a pang of regret in the formerly emotionless eyes. “Stop that.”

There was an uncoordinated huff of disagreement from Mycroft, “Stop what?”

Not replying until they had safely made their way back into the hallway, Gregory looked at Mycroft with unmasked concern, “Blaming yourself.” Those two words earned Greg a venomous stare that Greg was sure contained enough venom to kill about a thousand adults in one glance. The subject was quickly dropped by both parties. “Okay. But where's your bedroom?” It was only when Greg realized he had no idea which way to turn to get to Mycroft’s room to get the exhausted man to sleep safely that he finally thought to ask.

“Second floor. Right hallway, last door.” The answer from Mycroft was brief and Greg could hear the wavering voice. Along with the change in Mycroft’s tone and energy, it was quite apparent that Mycroft needed sleep and more likely. The man had to be running on empty after the day’s ordeals and Greg wondered how much Mycroft had had on his shoulders before it had all gone crashing down like an avalanche. 

They continued down the hallway. Mycroft’s frame shook as they walked, every step threatening to send him tottering sideways into the floor. The stairs rose in front of them like a mountain in front of a pair of exhausted hikers. Greg turned to look at Mycroft. He wasn't sure if Mycroft was up for conquering the stairs right now, but he wasn't sure if Mycroft would feel safe sleeping anywhere else but his own bed. With a worried sigh, Gregory took the first step, arms steadying Mycroft’s wobbling step up after him. Each stair was taken with the utmost care. Gregory supported Mycroft the entire way up the stairs with patience that exceeded what he even was aware he had. Finally, the pair reached the top. Mycroft slumped against Gregory with a wavering sigh, “I did not think we would make it.” 

Greg chuckled, starting to help Mycroft further along towards the right, “Well, we did. And now you've got to sleep off that hangover.” Mycroft shot him a sour glance but didn't retort as they neared the bedroom. 

Mycroft was the one to open the door. He did it effortlessly, and Greg was certain that it was muscle memory and not thinking of it specifically. That was worrying, as Greg had always known the Holmes to always think and never just act, and Gregory made a mental note to keep an eye out for any further idiosyncrasies.   
Pulling away from Greg’s steadying support, Mycroft ambled over to the simple king bed. Once Mycroft was safely in the bed and out of the possibility of his face meeting the floor, Greg was able to take a moment to look around. The entire room screamed of practicality instead of posh like the rest of the house. It was mostly empty, besides the plain duvet on the bed that added a splash of muted color and the simple two colored rug that covered a majority of the floor and reached out under what was likely a reading chair against the far wall along the blacked out windows.. A single door likely lead into the on suite bath, but Greg knew that even a drunk Mycroft wouldn't appreciate him nosing around. 

Speaking of the devil, Mycroft was already on the bed, silent. Greg knew leaving the man alone overnight after everything that had happened today, not counting the whole drunk part, was dangerous. He slowly, carefully, shut the door behind them so that if Mycroft tried to go back downstairs for more alcohol or to run off to work in the morning, Greg would hear the door opening. Mycroft didn't stir as the door clicked shut. Breathing in with a relieved sigh, Greg shrugged off his jacket for the first time in nearly twenty four hours to set it on the floor besides the dresser. He couldn't sleep quite yet, not with Mycroft still being in danger of throwing up while sick or sleep walking or having trouble sleeping, but Greg could at least take off the jacket and shoes he'd been wearing since he had left his apartment for work. The chair against the windows was calling Greg’s name. He quietly walked over to it, and collapsed down into it. The chair was more broken in than it appeared and Gregory could smell Mycroft’s presence all over it. 

As soon as he had sat down, Greg exhaled sharply and felt his entire body draining of energy. He doubted if he would be able to get up except in cases of extreme emergencies. His eyes focused on Mycroft, who was facing towards Greg, and slowly his field of vision grew more and more narrow…. 

 

“I can't. It's murder.” 

Gregory was only faintly aware of the shaking, feeble voice that was far too loud to be in his own head. He snapped his eyes open to the dimly lit room. Mycroft was sitting upright in bed, arm brandishing an umbrella and his entire body was shaking. His eyes, hardly visible in the poor lighting of the room, were wide open and focused on some unseeable foe at the foot of his bed. Gregory was fixed to the chair, too sluggish and startled to react immediately. 

Mycroft lowered the umbrella as if defeated, “I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside of me…. Not much of a target but…” The umbrella clattered off of the bed and onto the floor where the single lamp’s light caught the shimmer of the hidden blade. 

“Jesus Christ. Myrcoft.” Gregory finally found his feet and crossed over to the bed. He wasn't sure what to do, but Mycroft was just sitting there, slumped forwards and eerily unmoving. Gently, Greg wrapped his arms around the other man and eased him back down onto the bed. “Easy, Mycroft, easy. You're okay.” He saw Mycroft’s once unfocused eyes now focused solely on his face, and the emotion there was unreadable. 

“I-“ Mycroft started to speak in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, but Greg silence him with a stern glance.

“Don't apologize. You're not any less because you were having a nightmare about a terrifying experience that would have put most people on their knees cowering for days.” Greg sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what to do with himself. Leaving Mycroft alone to retreat to the chair seemed like a dick move, while remaining too close felt invading. 

Pale eyes sunken into dark pits stared back at Greg for a moment before break contact. Mycroft painfully inhaled, looking in the direction opposite of Greg, “I was going to say thank you, but since I am still able to say it and have it retain the same meaning, thank you.” Mycroft unsteadily returned his gaze to Gregory, “I am surprised you stayed.”

Greg rubbed at the back of his neck, “You’re welcome, Mycroft. And… You were drunk. And you need a friend. No one should have to go through this kind of recovery without some support that's more personal than just a distant talk over coffee. You're shaken up, Mycroft…” He didn't mention what he had heard Mycroft say just a few moments before. Without even knowing the context or situations that those words had been said in caused Greg pain. 

“I’m aware of my current mental state.” Mycroft sounded as defeated as he had appeared when he had dropped the sword/umbrella, “But, you're right. I don't know how I would have handled tonight if you had not stopped in and made sure I was alright, helped me to the bathroom, and offered support.” There was a moment of hesitation, and Mycroft seemed wary of his own words, “If you had done anything similar to this before the events that occurred yesterday, I would have turned you away, called you a fool, and never spoken to you again. I am not a naturally open man, and I do not do friends. Or I didn't.” Greg narrowed his eyes questioningly but didn't speak. “After what happened yesterday, I realized that my brother has something I do not that every person needs. A friend. I saw that I am not as good a man as I thought I was before the events that my sister put into motion.” 

Remaining silent, Gregory was unsure of how to respond. He fiddled with the corner of the duvet that had been pushed aside, “Mycroft-“

Mycroft shook his head and gently quieted Gregory with a pained glance, “I've the blood of many more people on my hands than I ever wished to, Lestrade. I am no better than the murderers you catch. Yet, here I am, a free man.”

“Mycroft.” Greg’s voice was pleading. 

“No, don't ‘Mycroft’ me, Gregory. I need to… I need to tell someone.” Sitting back up, Mycroft slumped his shoulders down, “I need help. I will not deny that. I need a friend, someone I can trust, someone who I know won't take advantage of me at my weakest for my position or my power. Sherlock would not have sent you here if he didn't trust you implicitly. If my brother trusts you, then I am aware that I can trust you as well.” There was a moment of understood silence between the two, “I trust you. I do not say that lightly, and I do not say it often, but you have earned it twice over.”

“I… Thank you, Mycroft.” Gregory let his eyes return to Mycroft instead of the now messy corner of the bed, “I'm here for you.”

Mycroft nodded in understanding and laid back down with what sounded like a relieved sigh. A surprisingly sly grin faintly rose to his lips, “If I remember correctly, Lady Smallwood arrived before you did. Did you run into her?”

Gregory blinked with confusion. He checked his phone to see the time when the small reminder was placed, but found it dead and checked his watch afterwards. It was nearly five pm. They'd slept straight through an entire day. “Yeah, I did. She was pretty pissed.”

“I revoked her security clearance again.” Mycroft snickered softly, reaching over to the bedside stand to grab for a phone Gregory had only now noticed. 

“Again?”


	4. Rambling

Mycroft’s phone went off the moment he picked it up. It was a sleek mobile that Gregory didn't recognize as anything standard on the market, but his inner curiosity was shoved aside as he watched Mycroft answer the phone in front of him. 

“Anthea.” It sounded like a strangely warm welcome. The familiarity behind the tone made Greg wonder exactly what went on between the two. “Yes, I am fine.” Mycroft’s voice lacked any hardness to it as he glanced at Greg while Anthea’s voice lightly drifted over the line, “Gregory.” Pause. “Sherlock. No I don't suppose that John had anything to do with it.” Gregory fiddled with the sheets. The call continued. “I drank, yes. DI Lestrade… Hm? I suppose not. No.” Shaking his head, Mycroft glanced to the chair and back to Gregory then to his own feet over the duvet. “I will not be going in for a few days at most. I've been advised to take some time off, DI’s orders. Yes, that would be appreciated. Thank you, Anthea, and tell David I said hello.” With that the call was over and Mycroft was left staring at his feet. 

“’DI’s orders’?” Gregory couldn't suppress the chuckle rising from his chest, “Didn’t think you took orders from anyone.” It was an oddly warming moment and Gregory wasn't about to let Mycroft miss out on something happier than the demons that lurked. 

The government man’s faint smile reappeared, “I do not take orders from anyone. But a friend’s advice does not go unheeded.” Taking one last look at the time on his strangely too modern mobile, Mycroft’s smile faded to lips in a concerned line, “It is nearly six and we haven't eaten. Anthea is sending take out from the Chinese dinner a few blocks over, and it'll arrive just after the hour. Is this alright with you?”

The reminder about food stirred Greg’s stomach. He hadn't felt the hunger pangs before, but now he was barely aware of anything else, “It’s fine, Mycroft. Better than fine, actually.” His thoughts were put on pause for a brief moment as Mycroft stretched out in front of him, still clad in a wrinkled suit. This moment of thoughtlessness was immediately followed by a storm of thoughts, all of which screamed different things from different angles and Gregory quickly focused his attention on the end of the bed. “Who's David?”

Mycroft snapped from the stretch at the sudden question, “David?” He echoed back, “Anthea’s partner. They do not work for me, but we've met due to Anthea.” His brows furrowed together while he shuffled to the side of the bed to stand, “Why?”

“Just curious. Hadn’t met them but I'd met Anthea was wondering if there was another not-a-PA that hadn't met yet.” Gregory answered, standing up with a lazy stretch while the distant thrum of worrying thoughts about the past day threatened to rise with him. 

Hearing Mycroft move about the room with the softness of someone familiar with it was reassuring. Greg turned to watch for a moment for anything jarring, or unusual, about Mycroft’s movements, worried that his friend would have gotten worse since last night or the nightmare, but Mycroft seemed physically alright. That was a decent start. “Mycroft, one last question.”  
“Yes?” Mycroft’s tone quivered. It sounded as if he had expected the easiness of the late waking to be finally broken. 

Gregory walked over to sit in the chair he'd slept in. From here he was able to see the majority of the room and Mycroft, “How are you feeling? Right now.. Here.” 

Mycroft sighed softly, “No use hiding it from you, I had guessed as much.” He dug through the drawer while speaking, hands carefully moving through dress shirts, “Confused. A bit scared. Dazed. I'm not really sure what to do.” 

“You should call your brother when you get the chance, or text him. Whatever it is you Holmes brothers do. Maybe after we eat something.” Gregory studied the man. Mycroft was a master at hiding exhaustion and inner troubles, he knew this from experience. The two had had meetings where Greg had been concerned that Mycroft was about to pass out from lack of sleep or where Mycroft had been so stressed that eating was impossible. “And you've been through something extremely traumatic, Mycroft. That's not going to go away overnight. I can see the weariness on your shoulders, the pain in your step. I know-“

“You know very little about me, Gregory.” Holding a dark blue shirt in one hand, and his other hand clutching at the drawer, Mycroft’s storm grey eyes met Gregory’s. The weight in Mycroft’s voice was enough to shit Greg up. A rising sense of urgency built. 

“Maybe. But that won't stop me from being here for you.” Gregory answered, anxiety surfacing as he felt the shift in the steady companionship they'd been sharing. 

Frowning, Mycroft held Gregory’s gaze, “Why?” His face was a mirror of regret and suffering, and his eyes fell from Greg’s.

It was surprising how much one word could carry on its back in a conversation. Gregory stood and slowly, carefully, crossed the room and stood next to Mycroft, arms folded slightly against his chest, “Because of a lot of things, Mycroft. You're a friend worth fighting for. You're loyal as hell, and you always try to do your best to help others out, even if it means harming yourself. You can be a pompous git sometimes, but you're the only pompous git I know who cares for their destructive brother so much so as to kidnap your brother’s friends and subtly threaten them in a way that's secret agent sexy. You're a bloody genius who runs the government but doesn't do it for his own gain, but simply to be the ‘Big Brother’ to everyone. Need I go on?”

It was only then that Greg saw and fully processed Mycroft’s facial expression. Mycroft was white as chalk with wide eyes that couldn't seem to settle on one solid emotion. If Gregory had ever seen a person unable to compute things and just shut down, this was certainly it. 

“Mycroft?” Gregory stepped in closer. Worry rose in his throat as Mycroft remained quiet. There was a tension in the air that Gregory couldn't name. 

Mycroft finally moved, feet shuffling on the wooden flooring, “No… That’s more than sufficient.” He seemed off, but not in a negative way. Greg wondered if he'd said something wrong. “No one has ever been as openly positive regarding myself. I didn't chose my position to receive recognition, but I can not say that it isn't appreciated. Or wanted.” His mobile chimed from across the room again, and Mycroft deflated as he realized what that specific chime was for, “Thank you, Gregory, but I do have to take that call. It's Lady Smallwood, and I'm sure she's realized that her clearance is gone. I should be down in the kitchen when the take out arrives.” He then skittered from the room, change of clothes in hand, and Gregory was left standing dumbfounded in the bedroom. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gregory had been twirling back and forth in the spiny dining chair for the past quarter hour while waiting for the take out to arrive. His phone had been a source of entertainment until it had died. The massive number of texts he'd replied to probably hadn't helped conserve the battery, not to mention the brief phone call with John that left them both with more questions than answers. John hadn't seemed at his best, but Sherlock’s voice could be heard in the background asking about what tea and which one of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought up did John want. It had sounded like the pair were taking care of each other. Sherlock had asked about Mycroft, and Gregory had replied that Mycroft seemed to be doing better but still had things to sort out. 

“Don't let him push those things aside or persuade you to ignore them, Lestrade. And he will try. Or he’ll force you away. I'm surprised he hasn't already. Did he try the umbrella?” 

“Did he try the what? And no… He hasn't even tried to force me away. He's been standoffish, but nothing I wouldn't expect.” 

“Hm.” 

Sherlock had asked John to hang up after that. Something about the tea kettle catching fire. 

Which then left Greg with a dead phone, a hungry stomach and impatience. And a slightly squeaky chair that let out a faint squeal whenever he spun around fast enough in it at the granite counter top. 

The door rang a full seven minutes later. Gregory bolted to the door, stumbling over the edge of one of the thick carpets. He threw open the door to find Anthea standing there with an amused expression as she offered the bagged take out with one hand, the other texting away on a similarly too modern phone. “For the boss man and his guest. I got his regular, and he texted me what you'd like after the call.” 

“Uh, thank you, Anthea.” Gregory wasn't entirely sure what to do besides take the food, “Anything else?” 

Anthea shook her head, “Nothing you need to worry about. Just make sure he eats, please.” Her eyes left the phone screen to meet Greg’s for a moment before she turned heel and simply left without another word. Greg shut the door quietly behind him and made the journey back to the kitchen.

Mycroft was sitting silently in the chair that Greg had left. He had a electric kettle going on the countertop next to the sink, but his attention was fully on Gregory. “Anthea?” It wasn’t so much a question, but Greg still nodded. 

“Yeah, she dropped it off. Said to make sure that you eat. Should I be worried?” Gregory already knew the answer for that one. Asking questions tonight seemed like something to be done even if the answer was known. Taking the seat next to Mycroft, Greg studied the boxes in the bag as Mycroft worked on a reply.

“I…” Mycroft glanced away as the food was set on the table and Gregory started to unpack it. The man uneasily shifted in his seat as the tension built up in the air again. “I was not, are not, the best when it comes to making sure I attend to my body’s needs. Eating and sleeping, mainly, get put aside for my position’s duties.” There was a gauntness to Mycroft’s shoulders that told Gregory just that. 

Gregory set out the food containers, the foods’ smell filling the room and reminding both men that their hunger was a pressing issue. “Well, as long as I’m here, you’re eating three meals a day. And drinking water. No alcohol.”

“I think that would work fine. No drinking for you, either.” Mycroft flashed one of the rare, genuine smiles that Gregory had never seemed often before last night. It was not the situation he had hoped to see these smiles from Mycroft in, but at least Mycroft wasn’t cold and distant anymore. There was hope for the two.

“I promise, no drinking.” Gregory returned the smile, “But I think I believe Anthea brought us this food to actually eat it, not smell it.” 

Snorting, Mycroft reached for one of the containers and opened it, “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of ordering for you. You’re rather predictable with your chinese food, Gregory.” Mycroft’s order was a few spring rolls, some rice, and something Greg couldn’t remember the name of, even after all of the meetings they’d had in chinese restaurants.

“Now I’m curious. What did you get me?” Inching towards the edge of his seat to peer curiously at the box of food that was unopened and just waiting for someone to serve it, Greg eyed Mycroft with warmth. 

Opening the box and sliding it carefully over, Mycroft seemed to puff up like a proud bird, “What you always get when you’re worried over something. Pot stickers, orange chicken, and fried rice.” 

“You, my friend, know me too well. And you’re fueling my unhealthy lifestyle, Mycroft. I don’t know if I can forgive that.” Gregory chuckled, picking up a fork and digging in. Mycroft snickered in response and the meal continued on in easy, friendly silence. 

Despite the food and good company, Gregory couldn’t help but let his mind wander to the man next to him. Mycroft appeared to be alright currently but Greg knew that demons could settle down quietly and without much warning, especially after a day like yesterday. There was something that hovered around Mycroft that kept Greg on his feet. Something dangerous that Greg wasn’t sure he could help, not yet. And then there was the moment earlier where Greg had frozen, attention drawn to the pale patch of revealed skin just above Mycroft’s hip. That was not something Gregory had been expecting to notice out of everything in that room. Were there freckles under those fancy dress shirts? 

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice broke through Greg’s derailed train of thought like a hot butter knife through butter. The other had a concerned look to his face as Gregory snapped his attention up from the empty plate that he’d been staring at. “Are you feeling alright?”

Swallowing hard, Gregory nodded. “Yeah, yeah, just… Thinking.” 

“Don’t get lost in unfamiliar territory, Gregory.” It was the friendly, teasing tone to Mycroft’s voice that drew Gregory’s attention back in from the brief moment of embarrassment.

Greg chuckled, “Wouldn’t think of it.” The laugh that rose from Mycroft’s chest filled the room, and Gregory found himself caught up in. It was the best thing he’d heard since yesterday besides hearing that both Holmes and John had made it through the ordeal in one piece.

“The puns.” Mycroft jokingly spat out ‘puns’ as he started to clean up the area. Greg stood and carried his own mess to the trash. They worked around each other, picking up the utensils and cups and setting them all in the sink. It was almost as if they’d been working together like this for ages. There was an ease and a rhythm to their movements as they neatened up the kitchen, Greg occasionally letting his eyes drift to watch Mycroft move effortlessly through the area. A gentle silence lingered in the air around them. 

The kitchen was soon clean,save for the dishes that Greg took up the task of rinsing and drying. There was a soft noise of movement over his shoulder. Greg turned around, thinking that Mycroft was going to tell him something, only to feel the warmth of someone against his front as soon as he was facing away from the sink. It took him a moment to process exactly what was going on. Mycroft had stepped in close to Greg, and the two were an awkward few inches apart. Greg cleared his throat. Mycroft cleared his.


	5. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crap, this is a later update than I expected. I'm currently without wifi and working 40 hours a week, making writing anything difficult but here we are. hopefully this lives up to the horrible wait I've put you all through! I'm having doubts about keeping this as slow as I was thinking, so we'll see what the next few updates bring.  
> \-------

Mycroft continued to hover over Greg’s shoulder for another few heartbeats before he pulled away. Plate in hand, Mycroft stepped back and Greg’s attention went back to finishing up the dishes. Both were trying to forget about the warmth that was now seeping from their skin in the brief near-contact, yet Greg felt it linger even more stubbornly the harder he tried to push it from his mind. He dragged the washcloth over the dishes furiously, hoping to distract himself from the noise of Mycroft’s footsteps around the dining area.  


Greg’s anxiety heightened as Mycroft dropped a cup over his shoulder into the sudsy water of the sink, “That’s the last piece. After you’re done with that and emptying the water from the sink, would you like to see if we can find you some spare clothing for the next few days?” Glancing over his shoulder, Greg watched as Mycroft stood next to the island with an unsure expression, “I’m not sure when my team might be able to run to your place, or offer a car even, with the mess that the cleanup of what happened on Sherrinford, and I’d prefer not to waste water by running the laundry every day.”  


“That sounds more than alright, Mycroft.” With the last cup done, Greg set it aside with the rest of the air-drying dishes and turned to face Mycroft. A nagging series of question suddenly plagued his mind but he wasn’t sure if this was the right time or place. Not with Mycroft looking like a spooked rabbit ready to run off to shelter at the first sign of rain.  


“I’ll wait here- Oh, you’re done.” Mycroft cut himself off as soon as he saw the draining sink, “You cleaned those up quicker than I thought you would.”  


Taking a moment to decide if that was a slight insult or a compliment with Mycroft’s expression saying nothing either way, Greg tucked the washcloth back over the oven handle, “Sometimes I’m afraid you’re being sarcastic when I can’t tell either way,” The government man frowned and was about to interject before Greg spoke up again, “But I have a feeling that wasn’t you being sarcastic.”  


There was a faint headshake from Mycroft, “No, it wasn’t. I am tired, and it makes it harder to show and express emotion. I’m aware I didn’t seem as tired easier, but eating weighs me down.” Adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, Mycroft started to head away from the kitchen area without waiting for a reply from Gregory. Greg followed right after, quiet and thinking over Mycroft’s response. There wasn’t a doubt in Greg’s mind that the companionable warmth of earlier had worn off as Mycroft had started to feel dragged down, and Greg couldn’t help but feel another twinge of worry towards Mycroft’s overall health. They’d talked about this already. Not able to bring himself to think that Mycroft was lying to him, not after everything that had already happened, Greg pushed the doubt from his mind.  


They went through the wood paneled hallways adorned with various paintings and photographs of people Greg had never met. It was a silent travel, one that felt nearly haunting with the thoughts that echoed around Greg’s mind. He didn’t say anything out of fear of saying something unwelcoming in the minds of the still eyes and dead minds of the photos and pictures on the walls, and Mycroft apparently didn’t seem willing to speak either.  


It wasn’t until they were up onto the second floor that Mycroft finally spoke, “I’m afraid I may not have too much in your size, but you’re welcome to look through my less formal clothing for something. There should be a pair of sweats or two that you could wear.” Greg didn’t analyze Mycroft’s room like he had the night before, and Mycroft didn’t seem too wary to share the typically personal space. Mycroft lead the way to a discrete door on the near side of the bed, “I have a small walk-in closet. It makes hanging suits easy and organizing easier.” He cleared his throat, holding the door open to Greg.  


Was that a hint of fear on Mycroft’s face? Taking a step closer, Greg studied Mycroft’s flickering expressions for a second. He could see the nervousness there. It was etched all over Mycroft’s face like a red warning light. Unable to pin it down to any one thing, Greg decided to stay quiet about it as he entered the small closet. Mycroft leaned against the doorframe and looked in. His gaze pricked at the back of Greg’s neck.  


The room was barely qualified as small. It was large enough to Greg to hold his arms out and spin in a circle while walking a pace or two without having to worry about hitting any of the walls or shelving. Despite the urge to do just so, Greg kept himself in check as he took in the level of quality clothing hanging around in the room. Reminded of a well-aged tailoring shop by smell and surroundings, Gregory sorted through the clothing with as quiet of a mind as he could. Those certainly weren’t Mycroft’s pants, silken and neatly folded, on the shelf to the left just in sight. And Greg certainly wasn’t going to look back over them.  


“In the back, to the right. Under the drawer.” Mycroft’s voice was faintly amused. Immediately heading off to where the directions indicated, Greg sheepishly dug out three pairs of large sweats and two well worn, yet still comfortable looking, shirts, “Those should work. You can try them in the bathroom if you’d like. I’ll go get your room ready for the night.” Nodding, Greg could already feel his body slowing down as the exhaustion hit him again.  


Mycroft left the doorway, and Greg heard the bedroom’s door open and then shut. Greg headed out of the closet right after that with the spare clothes from Mycroft slung over his arm and into the bathroom. The bathroom’s interior made him pause.  


It was the emptiness and lack of ‘lived in’ clutter that had Greg nearly convinced Mycroft must not even use the bathroom. There was a single toothbrush set in the stand against the single sink in the only counter space in the smaller than expected bathroom, with a single plain colored carpet on the floor as the center piece. The shower stood in the corner with frosted glass panels. A towel was hung over the only hook in the entire room. Greg set the shirts and sweats down on the towel rack that was suspiciously empty of any towels. It was painfully clear that Mycroft hadn’t spent too much time at his house and didn’t expect to spend much time there either.  


Sighing, Greg tossed his shirt off and started to try on the shirts one by one. He finally found one that fit despite being a bit snug on the arms. If there was proof Mycroft was slender as a stalk, this was proving just that. Not that Greg had ever wondered what was under those bulletproof suits and waistcoats.  


“Have you found anything, Gregory?” There was that smug voice from the doorway.  


Greg couldn’t hold back a snort, “Did you get lost on your way to the other bedroom?” He tugged the edge of the shirt down as it crept up.  


“Fortunately for you, no.” Mycroft was leaning against the doorframe in a way that Greg didn’t think someone as stiff as Mycroft could lean. “That shirt should do until Anthea has time to run to your flat.”  


Hearing the faint, masked hint of exhaustion, specifically of the mental kind, Greg glanced up to Mycroft with concern. More of the previously unanswered questions lingered. Like what exactly was going on outside of the isolated estate. Greg cleared his throat, “Mycroft, how much do you know about what’s going on? My mobile is still dead and while I don’t think either of us should be too involved in the cleanup but we can’t exactly be cooped up in here like we’re stuck in a -“  


“Gregory.” The tone of Mycroft’s voice cut Gregory off. It wasn’t rude, or intimidating. Instead it was the exact opposite. Even Mycroft’s eyes were soft and quiet with a hint of distraction and tiredness. Greg couldn’t break through something that cushioned and didn’t fight back.  


Mycroft stepped closer. Greg didn’t dare move. If the moment at the sink had been tense, this was something altogether different. Greg wasn’t sure how to label it or if it even had a name but the closer Mycroft got, the faster his heart beat. He felt weak at the knees with what might be the start of a heart attack. In the moment that Greg inhaled and the next heartbeat that shook his chest, Mycroft was standing in front of him. All Greg could see were the labels on Mycroft’s jacket and he wasn’t sure if he had the guts to look up and see whatever expression was on Mycroft’s face.  


“Gregory,” Mycroft rasped, “ _Gregory_.” Greg swore his entire body was trembling. He’d be damned if Mycroft saw that. “Look up.”  


It was an instinctual reaction for Gregory to shake his head like a defiant child. Greg couldn’t decide if their proximity or the ramping tension between them was heating up the air, but he was beginning to wonder if this is what felt like before spontaneously combusting. Butterflies ached in his stomach, dying and being reborn in an endless jittery cycle. “Mycroft.”  


There wasn’t a verbal reply to Greg’s mutter. He could hear the fabric of Mycroft’s suit shift, and Greg glanced up to see if Mycroft was moving away or moving closer. That question was answered when the anxious DI felt warmth brushing over his fevered cheek. It was Mycroft’s hand cupping Greg’s face. The jitters Greg had suddenly burned up and fizzled out to sizzling burning points along Greg’s skin. Looking up to Mycroft with a slow gaze that didn’t seem to know exactly where to look, Greg swallowed hard when he saw the wide and surprised expression that he was wearing reflected right back to him. Mycroft had more than just surprise in his eyes however, and Greg took a few stuttering breaths to process the subtle warmth that he saw along the faint smile and melted grey eyes. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there for, with Mycroft’s hand on his cheek and with an eye contact that didn’t seem to want to end no matter how many times either one of them moved their eyes to take in the other’s expression. Greg was incapable of thinking beyond the numbing warmth that Mycroft gave off. It seemed the Ice Man was melting while Greg heated up.  


Finally, Mycroft broke the thunderous silence that had only been interrupted by the deafening thumping of Greg’s heartbeat, “Gregory.” The warmth continued in Mycroft’s voice. It sounded unused, scared almost, to Greg’s ears, “If there’s anything you’ve shown me so far, it’s that everything will be alright. I appreciate your concern, but I believe it’s unfounded for now. If anything changes, you will be the first I speak to. If anything happens, you will be the first I tell. And if I need anyone to talk to, I know you’re there, and I know you’re not afraid to bring things up if need be.”  


Gregory was breathless as Mycroft spoke then slowly retracted his hand. There was a moment of indecision, and Mycroft’s breaths stirred Greg’s hair before he closed the space that lingered between them. He rested his forehead against Greg’s, eyes closed. Shutting his eyes as well, Greg didn’t let himself think and instead embraced it. They stood for there with only each other and a shirt that was just starting to itch.


	6. Riddle Me This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration really struck. Things are going to start to pick up from here on out. Next update within a week or so if things work out. Enjoy the update! ;u; <33  
> \-----------------  
> This is another mobile writing post, as most of the time. Un beta'd, un Brit picked, etc. I'm always looking for feedback and what not, so don't be afraid to tell me what you think!

The next day passed without further incidence. They'd parted after the embrace, and Greg had been left standing there, godsmacked and confused as hell. Mycroft had gone back to a more icily appropriate personality not long after. Greg didn't know what to make of it and he didn't want to bring it up in case it was a lapse of judgement or a reaction born from the unique circumstances. It wasn't something Greg wanted to dwell on too long as it was likely he'd never understand what was going on in Mycroft’s mind. So, Greg tried not to think of it. Mycroft was doing something similar, and they both seemed to dance around each other in the awkward way of a prepubescent child might act around an older crush. Neither really spoke to each other. They barely even shared any friendly looks. Their interactions seemed to be now be limited to brushes in the hallway, uncertain and occasionally silent conversations, and the lack of the warmth that had been there previously. If Greg didn't know any better, he'd have guessed that Mycroft was just as confused as he was. 

This all left Greg sitting alone in the bedroom Mycroft had designated to him, quietly brooding. He wasn't here to brood over Mycroft. Grumbling, Greg stood up from the chair. He'd been sitting there long enough for his arse to go numb and he wasn't about to let himself spend the rest of the day there, offended and confused over a Holmes. That wasn't why Greg had gone to Mycroft’s in the first place. 

It was just a friendly touch, after all. Nothing more, nothing less. Mycroft only meant to soothe Greg’s fraying nerves, of course, and not to build on the tension that had stayed since the sink. Of course not. 

With that frame of mind which really didn't address anything but did seem to put Greg’s worries to rest, the uncertain DI began to pace. It was nearly seven am, and he knew he should be well awake by now. He'd heard Mycroft’s bedroom door open an hour or two ago. The entire day had been miserable since that touch, and Greg hadn't been sure of what to do with himself. Like now. Not knowing what to do but knowing he should be doing something seemed to be a common theme in Greg’s life. 

Finally deciding to not let himself continue to think about what had happened, Greg stopped pacing and slumped onto the bed. “What am I doing?” He mumbled, running a hand through his hair. There was an urge to call Molly or John. Those two always seemed to know what to do with the Holmes better than Greg did. 

“I need my mobile.” Talking to himself, Greg sat back up and scooted to the edge of the bed, “Damn thing’s still dead… Gotta get Mycroft to get me a ride to my apartment.” Determined to get out for an hour or two, Greg got up and left the bedroom.

The hunt for Mycroft wasn't a long one. Having narrowed it down between either the study, the kitchen, or his bedroom, Greg made his way from the last to the first. It wasn't until he saw the closed door of the study that Greg knew where Mycroft was exactly. Yet it was who was standing in front of the door that made Greg stop halfway down the hallway. 

“John?” Greg had to be imaging things. It was too early, too soon for John to be over given everything that had happened. 

The former military doctor lowly chuckled, “Good to see you too, Greg. You look like a bloody ghost. Mycroft got you spooked?” 

Greg could hear the tired lit to John’s voice. The slight sag of John’s troubled shoulder and the dark bags under his eyes shouted exhaustion. He finally walked over, offering a genuine smile, “No, though he's the ghostly one today, apparently.” Pausing, Greg eyed the door of the study, “You here for him or…? Why are you here?”

“Anthea sent for me. Wanted me to do a health check on Mycroft before he was allowed to put in for part time work. It's been two days and Mycroft has barely had contact with anyone besides you and Anthea, and while I don't doubt your abilities as a good friend, I'm doubting Mycroft’s abilities to handle stress appropriately.” John replied while eyeing the door, “He locked the door when I said why I was here. Hasn't answered. Damn Holmes.”

“Damn Holmes is right. How's Sherlock holding up, by the way?” Greg tried the handle of the door despite what John had said. He wouldn't admit that he was inwardly hopeful that Mycroft might've unlocked the door for him. No such luck. Maybe he was as pigeon-headed as Sherlock treated him. 

Speaking of Sherlock, John answered Greg’s question, “He's staying at his flat, and him and Molly have agreed to spilt Rosie’s baby-sitting, which is a godsend. The first night he was on track to play his violin throughout the night but when Rosie started to cry, he switched from cat-scratch to a lullaby. I think I've heard it before but it was definitely an original of his. Rosie stopped crying and Sherlock went to sleep. He made breakfast yesterday.” The expression on John’s face was pure shock, “It was edible. And he even cut up and smushed some vegetables and fruits for Rosie.”

“Are you sure that this is Sherlock you're talking about?” Greg couldn't believe what he was hearing either. John wasn't one to lie but Greg couldn't wrap his head around it. 

“I'm sure, Greg. I know I'm sure, because Sherlock sat me down the morning we got back and asked me to talk.” John’s eyes were darkened, “He told me that he was afraid. Afraid of loosing me, and his brother, Rosie, Molly, everyone. Even someone named Gavin.” Cracking a faint smile that barely touched his eyes, John shook his head and glanced to the ground, “He promised to… To make an effort. To try to be a good man.”

The conversation dropped off for a moment. It was a heavy promise, that was certain. “And, what did you say?” Greg prompted. His attention drifted from the locked door to John’s varying expressions.

John sighed, “I told him I’d hold him to it. That nothing like what happened on Sherrinford was going to happen again. Ever. There were not going to be any grand games anymore, that he wasn't going to go off willy-nilly and risk his life or others. If he did, it would be over.” The haunted expression on John’s face slowly faded away. Greg felt like he was standing in front of a crackling fire that was on the edge of burning out. 

“Good for you, John. He needs someone to keep him in line, to remind him he's no less human than anyone else. And that his life matters.” Attention returning to the door from the exhausted Watson, Greg let the topic end there as he went to knock on the door, “Mycroft. Hey, Mycroft. John’s here to do his doctor stuff and you're the one he's here to see.”

There was an eerie lack of noise from behind the study door. Even being a secured room that likely had some sound muffling architecture, Greg knew he should have been able to hear something. The nothing was worrying. He knocked again, “Mycroft?”

Letting out a huff of frustration, John knocked as well, “Mycroft! I'm not exactly on a short schedule today, and you need a brief screening to be cleared for your return to work part-time, order of your creepy, stalkerish P.A.” 

Greg stopped mid knock, “Did she kidnap you again?”

John shot him a look that would have withered a rose, “What do you think? It's seven thirty in the morning, Greg.” Greg couldn't hold back the snort that followed at the image of John being dragged from the flat this early in the morning. “It's not that hilarious!”

Still chuckling in his chest, Greg knocked again. There was a disturbing lack of response now and a knot was forming in Greg’s throat. What if something had happened to Mycroft? If someone had gone after him while he was in recovery? That knot grew tighter to the point where it felt suffocating. “Mycroft?” Uncertain, Greg stopped knocking and dropped to the floor to try to peer under the door. There had to be a little gap that he could look through to see something, anything. Down on his knees and hands, Greg was able to glance through the tiny gap between the wooden floor and the door, and he couldn't make out anything right away. It wasn't easy to see anything, but he could smell the faint sting of expensive alcohol and possible vomit starting to draft out of the room. “That bastard!” A wave of pure disgust and betrayal overtook Greg as he stood up. His hands clenched at his sides. 

“He drank, didn't he?” Shaking his head, John’s eyes flashed with concern and he pulled out his mobile, “I've got Anthea’s number, she can get ahold of whatever medical team or response we may need for him.”

John didn't get a chance to keep speaking as Greg hissed, “We need to get in there.” Not able to reign in the unrestrained distress, the DI’s voice cracked, “He promised. That bastard promised.”

Putting up a hand to hold the conversation, John spoke to Anthea in a hurried and soft voice. As soon as the call was over, the door clicked to unlocked and John turned to Greg, “He might have promised, but he's not in any state to keep any promise he makes. I'll talk to you after I check on him. You need to stay out here if you're going to be this distressed.” John opened the door, but shut it and locked it after him before Greg could even process what had happened. Left to simmer outside of the door, Greg slumped against the wall and didn't try to let himself address the conflicting emotions and thoughts inside of his mind. 

The next few minutes passed without further incidence. It wasn't until Anthea arrived with a medical team swathed in black behind her that Greg snapped from the thought process he was drowning in. Anthea nodded to him, understanding something Greg hadn't yet, and she swiped a card over a card reader Greg hadn't seen. She motioned the team, and Greg inside.

Mycroft’s study was one of Greg’s favorite rooms. Especially when it didn't smell like putrid alcohol. John stood over the chair where Mycroft was sitting, unconscious, at a funny angle that was sure to leave a painful kink in his neck when he woke. There was a dribble of saliva out of the side of Mycroft’s mouth. His waistcoat was discarded on the ground and the suit jacket was tossed in the corner like a discarded tissue. Even from the entrance of the study, Greg could see how flushed Mycroft’s skin was . Stomach sinking to the bottom of his torso, Greg felt the urge to vomit rising as the bile stung the back of his throat. Too many emotions, too much. Too-

“Gregory.” Anthea’s voice cut the panicked thoughts off, “This wasn't just alcohol.” She was pacing the edge of the room, occasionally stopping to look over the bookcases and study a particular book. Maybe she could see some sort of code that Greg couldn't. The room went quiet. The medical team didn't stop taking Mycroft’s vitals, however, and John seemed trapped between barking orders at the team and listening to Anthea.

The vile receded and Greg returned to feeling like his knees had been cut off. He was sinking into a mental hole, dark and chilled. “What do you mean it wasn't just alcohol?” Voice cracking halfway through the sentence, Greg put a hand on the nearest bookcase to steady himself, “Of course it's just alcohol. No one else could get into this study. He just… Was a bloody idiot.” Not much of an argument at all. 

“No, Gregory.” Anthea stopped pacing and stepped back from the bookcase. Greg hadn't really been paying too much attention to what Anthea had been doing but the sudden stop drew his attention. He glanced up only to see Anthea was whiter than a bed sheet. Her eyes were haunted, “Look at the bookcases, look at the first letter. Read it to me.” 

Frowning, Greg stood up. His eyes refused to go to the bookcases as the medical team injected something into Mycroft’s neck. He shied away, worry tearing his stomach apart. Rolling his lips and stepping back to where Anthea was, Gregory studied the bookcase and the book spines. Some of them stood out more with gilded letters that shimmered in the artificial light. 

“ **M**." Greg read out the first, trying to organize his thoughts.

“ **I**."His focus jumped to the next book. John paused as Mycroft stirred.

“ **S**." Eyes narrowing, Greg continued. The medical team quieted down.

" **S**."Greg’s heart sank to some bottomless pit. He didn't need to continue reading to know what was coming next, but something compelled him to. 

“ **M**."

“ **E**.”

The room was silent. Mycroft gagged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh


	7. Stabilize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter killed me. I've had a painful month, and I'm really sorry for this delayed update. I know where this is heading now quite clearly, so hopefully updates will be a bit quicker. This is a little shorter than normal, and doesn't have much to it, but I felt like I was pulling teeth writing it. Anyways, enjoy!

“No. No! No.” Greg took a stumbling step back away from the bookshelf, “No. We ended that. Moriarty is dead. He’s gone and dead and in the damn ground and I watched Sherlock jump for that. No. It’s over and done and there’s no way in hell that bastard is alive. No!” His fist collided with the edge of the nearest table, and everyone but Mycroft jumped. He snarled, threading his hand through his hair before the odd sense of betrayal and anger bubbled over and fizzled out. All that was left was a frustrating madness that threatened to escalate.

John flinched, immediately hurrying over to Greg while giving Anthea directions for what to do next, “I’ll call Sherlock and have him get everyone out of Baker Street. Anthea, get a safe house together and have anything we might need for Mycroft sent there and make sure it’s one that’s never been used before. Have someone sent to get Sherlock and Rosie, and get Mrs. Hudson and Molly somewhere as well. Get a team outside around the house and make sure someone’s always watching this place before we leave.” He turned to Greg with urgency in his expression. “Even if this is a copycat, or someone who got lucky, we’ve got to take the correct steps. I’m still not sure what they dosed Mycroft with but I don’t want a second chance to find out. Stay here with him while I go call Sherlock.” The fraying ends of John’s typically steeled nerves were obvious and Greg didn’t even have a chance to reply before the doctor rushed from the study, mobile in hand. 

The team that had been called in slowly dispersed throughout the room to cover the entrances and windows. A shiver passed down Greg’s skin. They’d gone from the frying pan into the fire 

There was an audibly stressed sigh from Mycroft. Greg looked over to him, fighting the urge between staying away and approaching. He felt… Useless. The frustration with Mycroft boiled up again but it died right back as Mycroft’s grey eyes caught Greg’s. There was pure exhaustion and defeat in the lingering gaze, two things that Greg would never have thought would apply so fearfully well to Mycroft Holmes. It was a call for help, silent and pulling.

Walking over, Greg took a tentative seat in the plush chair next to Mycroft’s, “How are you feeling, Mycroft?” He couldn’t look too long at Mycroft or else he felt an unexpected mixture of a tug of pity and protectiveness with an underlying fury that Mycroft had gone back to drinking. By some miracle, Greg managed to keep it controlled. 

Mycroft shuffled his feet on the floor, “Absolutely horrid.” His face was still slicked with sweat and had a flushed look to it, but it wasn’t the healthy red tinge. It was a sickly green hue that made the younger man appear dreadful. And if his reply was anything to go by, he felt equally as bad as he looked. “That’ll teach me not to drink.”

Unable to suppress a wince, Greg sighed to let out some of the frustration that had been building like a storm behind his eyes, “I… Can’t argue with that.” He wasn’t able to find words as his tongue felt like it was flopping around uselessly in his mouth. There was a need to talk about what they’d just found but no one wanted to touch that subject at all. Greg certainly not. “Don’t lock the door next time on John. If we had arrived any later or hadn’t been able to get in…” The thought dropped off as the implication hit them both, “We’re trying to help you and your brother, Mycroft.” 

“I’m aware.” Weakly, Mycroft pushed himself up to sit up straighter, “I’m resisting the urge to toss a few of these folders around and make an absolute mess of this room, but I barely have the strength to even stand.” Quieting, Mycroft turned his face down, staring at the floor, “There have been far too many events in the past few days for me to remain stable, Lestrade. I am not even sure how I’m still functioning now besides you and Anthea.” With a sigh that could have cleaned off a dandelion, Mycroft slumped back into his chair. “I’m sorry I failed you, Gregory.” 

 

There was another flash of emotions. Greg murmured under his breath for a moment, trying to reign everything in, “I’m not going to ask you to make another promise. We both see how that went.” Mycroft winced, shying away. Greg continued, “You’ve been my good friend for a long while, Mycroft. Nearly a decade now. If you think I’m just going to give up on you, you’re wrong. But I’m not going to sit back while you destroy yourself.” He rested his head in his hands, unsure of what to do next. Mycroft’s eyes were fixated on him, surprisingly, and Greg only managed a small shrug that offered nothing, “I don’t know Mycroft. I don’t know.”

“I do.” Mycroft’s tone was stronger than before, solid. It took Greg by surprise, “I... Gregory..” He froze.

John burst back into the room. His cheeks were flushed almost as red as Mycroft’s, but it definitely wasn’t from being poisoned. No, Greg knew, it had everything to do with Sherlock. “That bloody arse thinks he’s going to be going after whoever did this! And he already dropped Rosie off with Molly!” Greg thought he could see steam rising from John’s ears. 

The stoic diplomat had returned. Greg could see it in the faint way Mycroft shifted forwards in his seat, clasping his hands on his lap while his gaze turned to John. It brought a faint flicker of hope to Greg. “He won’t be able to. Anthea’s already organizing a safe house for us all while one of my teams will be tracing and tracking to find who did this. I have no doubt we’ll be out of here within an hour, and Rosie, Sherlock, and perhaps even Molly will be brought to the same house around the same time.” John nodded to Mycroft’s statement, but Mycroft continued, “The house we’re going to hasn’t been used before. It’s off the grid and located fairly out of the way, and thankfully should have enough rooms for everyone. Or at the least, enough sleeping space. It’s a day’s drive and a ferry ride away, so just make sure you’re prepared for the ride.”

Another brief nod from John and then the other man headed towards the door of the study, “I’ll go with the men to get Sherlock and Rosie. Get Mrs. Hudson somewhere safe too, Mycroft. We both know what could have happened last time.” 

Those last words hung in the air. It was oddly silently before Mycroft pushed himself up to stand. Greg immediately rushed to Mycroft’s side to offer aid, but Mycroft denied it with a singe gesture of his hand, “I just need my umbrella, Gregory. I can use that as a cane instead of having to rely on you.” Maybe it was Mycroft’s pride that prevented it, or that he really didn’t want to be dependent on someone else, but either way it was something that showed him coming back to his regular self. Greg wondered what Mycroft had been going to say just before John burst into the study but he didn’t press. If it was important, the man would likely bring it up again. 

“Here.” Greg grabbed the umbrella from its stand and handed it over to the ragged man, “Take it easy, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft took the umbrella and put his weight onto the tip, leaning onto it, “I will, Gregory. Thank you…. Now, we should go get things together. I believe our ride should be hear momentarily.” 

It was true. The ride pulled up in front of the house and was thoroughly vetted by Mycroft’s lackies as Greg and Mycroft looked on from the second floor window in the lounge. Their bags- which were really only a shower bag for Greg and the rest were Mycroft’s- were already being taken downstairs by the indifferent men that had finished checking the car and driver. John had left only a few moments earlier to go get Sherlock and his daughter, and now all that was left was getting into the car and heading to wherever Mycroft’s PA and team and whoever else worked behind the scenes of this mess had thought to send them.

“A day’s ride and a ferry trip, huh?” Greg asked, minding Mycroft as they took the grand stairs down to the ground floor. The first flight of stairs had almost done Mycroft in, and Greg kept one hand hovering over Mycroft’s shoulder protectively. 

Pausing on the fifth stair from the bottom, Mycroft tottered with the umbrella holding him up, “Yes. I’m reluctant to give the details just yet, knowing my house has been compromised, but I can tell you everything once we’re in the car. Anthea has been filling me over text for the past quarter hour and I believe you should be one of the first to be given this information.” 

“Thank you, Mycroft.” Easing down the stairs behind Mycroft, Greg finally let his thoughts return to the world bearing down on his shoulders. He could feel the weight of the recent events pushing him into the ground, suffocating him slowly, painfully. First Eurus, and the damage from that wasn’t even completely cleaned up yet, and now what seemed to be a Moriarty wannabe. At least Eurus was in custody, and if Greg knew anything about the Holmes, it was that they never let danger wander too far. Not after something like that. But the Moriarty aspect made Greg sick to his stomach. He’d seen the body himself, helped ID it, visited Mycroft multiple times over that entire escapade. There wasn’t a way in hell the bastard himself was back. It just couldn’t be. There was a body missing half of its skull… Too much blood missing, not enough brain left… The scene that night was a disaster. Everything-

Once again, Mycroft tugged Greg in from his cascading thought process, “Think any harder, Gregory, and you might start smoking from the ears. I will explain what I can in the car.” 

“I’m going to take that comment as concern and not as a rude one.” Greg muttered to himself, “But thanks, mate.”


	8. Are we there yet?

Twelve hours later, and they were still in the bloody car. Greg couldn’t feel his legs anymore, and he was fairly sure that Mycroft’s odd position with his legs up on the seat, reclining back against the car door, was probably because the man had also lost feeling below the waist. He had hoped they’d stop again, but between a truck rolling over with a shipment of nasty fish and over an hour’s worth of bathroom stops, Greg had a feeling that they wouldn’t be stopping again until they got to wherever they were going. Which was still a mystery, no thanks to Mr. Types-A-Lot on the computer, who claimed that he was ‘definitely not doing work on’ and the strained silence between them that was punctuated rudely by the clicks and clacks of the laptop’s keyboard every few seconds. 

Blinded by the brightness of the laptop, Greg had turned to gaze out the windows at the darkened passing country side. A little while longer went by without incident. The headlights of the car behind them which contained Sherlock, John, and Rosie, were far less blinding then Mycroft’s light polluting laptop. Greg wondered if Mycroft had even found the dimmer button on the cursed thing. 

Greg wasn’t sure when, but the light on the other side of the backseat was abruptly gone. He glanced over, seeing Mycroft asleep with the laptop on his lap, curled up around the thing protectively. It was almost endearing, except that Mycroft was likely absolutely knackered from the past days’ events and everything was taking its toll within a very short period of time. At the very least, Greg wasn’t going to let Mycroft sleep with the brick of a laptop, just in case it cut off more of the circulation or crushed the poor man’s legs. That laptop was one of those heavy duty, survive any type of weather type of machines, and it definitely had the angled, metallic look of them too. The car was sleepily quiet now, the kind of quiet that lulled one to sleep, and Greg could already feel himself fighting heavy eyelids as he leaned forwards just enough to reach the laptop on Mycroft’s lap. With the care one might use when handling a stranger’s baby, Greg set the laptop on the passenger seat. Mycroft stirred, and Greg’s pulse jumped as the man’s body shifted against the cushions. He didn’t wake, thankfully, allowing Greg to settle back against his own seat. Those heavy eyelids felt like lead now, and every breath grew sluggish and deep, and it wasn’t long before Greg gave in to the exhaustion of the day as well. 

His own sleep was restless and light. The ghosts of the last few years hunted at the edge of his consciousness for a moment to drag him down into a nightmare, and Greg finally settled on staying awake as an uneasy feeling nestled in behind his chest. He wanted to claw it out and toss it out the window, but any attempt at quieting his mind by looking outside only made him feel more paranoid. Maybe it was the invisible shadows that lingered at night, or maybe it was just because neither the driver or Mycroft had spoken this entire ride, but whatever it was, Greg knew it wasn’t about to go away any time soon. His mobile was still quite dead, so Greg sat in the back seat, eyes focused on the back of the driver’s seat. At least boredom wouldn’t kill him. The paranoia, however… That was debatable. 

An indeterminable length of time later, a noise like a plugged vacuum filled the car. Greg shook, jolted from whatever quiet thoughts he was having. Eyes wide and heart constricting in his chest, the DI’s attention immediately went to Mycroft, who’s mouth hung open at an odd angle as he slept. The noise repeated itself. The driver sighed. “Yeah, poor bloke snores sometimes. Especially after stressful days where he hasn’t slept for a while. You could try readjusting his neck and seeing if you can get that kink out, or leave him alone.” It was the first time Greg had heard the man speak, and he could pick up the noticeable scouser accent. 

“I wouldn’t want to wake him.” Greg protested. Seeing a sleeping Mycroft was a rarity, even if he was snoring louder than a truck’s engine. 

The driver made an unconcerned noise, “You won’t. When he sleeps, I’ve found he sleeps like a brick. I’ve driven through accident sites, city plazas, industrial areas, and so on, without any issues. He’s out, he’s out.” 

Greg frowned. He’d rather not disturb Mycroft anyhow, but the positioning of the man’s neck was definitely one that would leave you with a sore neck for the rest of the day. Grumbling, Greg ran a hand through his hair and scooted forwards on his seat just enough so that he could turn and reach across to adjust Mycroft’s chin. His hand tentatively braced Mycroft’s chin up. Mycroft snorted. Greg could feel the stubble running against his sensitive palm, and he had to swallow hard as his mind wandered to wondering what that unkempt stubble might feel like against other sensitive areas. Now, and likely for a long while, was not the time. He eased Mycroft’s head out of the painful angle with a gentle hand. Once satisfied with how Mycroft’s neck was, Greg sat back on his own side of the seat and returned to focusing on the back of the driver’s seat. His mind needed to get off of Mycroft.

Suddenly, the car was swaying. Greg blinked rapidly a few times. His eyelids were heavier than he could remember them ever being, and his entire body felt sluggish and weighed down. “What…?” Muttering to himself, Greg felt the need to stretch as his body went from heavy and almost numb to fidgety and energized too quickly for him to figure out what was going on. It was only when he heard the nearby slap of water against the side of something hard that Greg’s attention drifted out the windows 

The ocean surrounded them. A narrow strip of green was visible off in the distance, and it seemed to be gradually pulling closer. “The hell… it’s morning…” Seemingly unable to comprehend everything at once, Greg slowly went through everything that had changed and everything around him one thing at a time. They were on a ferry, clearly, and the sky was just barely starting to turn from black to grey. There was barely enough light but Greg could pick out a broken line of land nearing them as the ferry trudged on. Where the hell were they going?

“Orkney Islands, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice startled the DI, “And no, I am not reading your mind. You spoke that question aloud.” Greg’s eyes met Mycroft’s over the top edge of that cursed laptop. The glow from the laptop gave Mycroft’s face a sunken in look. 

Wondering how much of it was actually sunken in, Greg sat up in his seat, “You’re taking us to the Orkney Islands?.… Why there? Why not stay in one of your private estates?” He questioned. His head hurt like someone had smashed a brick into it multiple times and the cracking, splitting pain echoed down the nape of his neck. 

The laptop was slowly closed, “There happens to be a favor owed to me. I have obtained a property in Saint Margaret’s Hope for us to… distance ourselves from what occurred on Sherrinford. Consider it a mandatory vacation.” Mycroft glanced to the narrow strip of land. What did he see there? 

“We’re hiding.”

There was a brief silence. “I was attempting to avoid that particular terminology, but yes, Gregory, we are hiding. Here we can monitor who leaves, who arrives, who goes where and when… It’s safety and security until things have settled down.”

Mycroff didn’t look simply exhausted. He held himself up by the threads of his suit jacket and appeared to be ready to topple over sideways at the lightest breath. Exhaustion, insane amounts of stress, and god knows what likely all lurked in the darker corners of Myrcoft’s brilliant mind, and Greg could see it eating away at him in the new tiny wrinkles along the edges of the politician’s eyes. Or the awkward creases at the cuff of Mycroft’s sleeves from where the man had been grabbing them and holding onto them. Sherlock would be proud. Maybe not so much of the fact that Greg was using what he’d picked up on Sherlock’s brother, but the thought was something at least.

What was clear was that Mycroft needed to get out of London. Needed to get away from it all and just breathe. 

“No laptop there?” Greg asked, eyeing the brick like piece of equipment that had only left Mycroft’s lap once during the entire trip. It was like the damned thing was the man’s lifeline.

Mycroft nodded slowly, “No laptop. No cell. Anthea will be handling everything.” He sagged back against the door of the car. If the ferry rocked again, Greg was almost afraid Mycroft might just sag right through the door and out into the open water. “We’ve got three days at least, a week maximum.”

The timeline was oddly specific without any of the important details, which Greg found immediately frustrating. “What happens after the week’s up?”

“I don’t know.”

The boat’s horn sounded over the water. They were arriving, along with a smothering sense of dread.


	9. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! My hard drive in my computer just fried and well, I lost everything. So here's a bit longer of an update, with some more coming this weekend!

There was a barely noticeable line between numb legs and holy-fuck-I-need-to-move legs, and Greg had painfully discovered that the line was drawn with the feeling static coursing over his shins as the car pulled up to a two a story building. He shifted his legs anxiously, eyes focused on the house that could just barely fit under the title of a house instead of a manor or estate. The front of the house was guarded by a large iron fence that encircled most of the nearby area, and the building itself seemed to be constructed from a pale grey concrete that could stand up to the whipping winds. It looked like an above ground bomb shelter. 

Greg remained quiet, feeling the car slow to a stop just at the top of the driveway. He wasn’t sure if there was anything to say in that moment, and neither could the snoring Mycroft sitting across from him. How the hell Mycroft had managed to fall asleep again in less than an hour was clear to Greg as he saw the darkened pits under Mycroft’s eyes, the shaggy, unkempt hair piled on his head, and the sagging slope to every plane of Mycroft’s usually sharp edges. It was concerning, and Greg didn’t know how to even approach the issue.

A heartbeat passed as Greg studied Mycroft’s face. Even asleep he looked like he was on the brink of death. He could’ve lost him. It could have only been Greg in that car, and Mycroft could have been six feet under the topsoil. Shit. 

Air was dragged from Greg’s lungs as a mental whirlwind whipped up. His body shook, and he suddenly felt ill, anxious, and much much smaller in comparison to the world around him. Mycroft could have died. Sherlock and John too. Maybe even Molly. The floor of the car seemed to become distant as Greg’s thoughts pulled inwards like shadows fleeing from the light. Heart racing and with a nauseous bile rising in his throat, Greg tucked forwards, resting his elbows on his knees as he tried to catch an elusive breath. 

Mycroft was here. He was breathing. They were safe. They’d gone away somewhere safe. They were going to be alright.

The constriction in his throat eased. It was slow, almost terrifyingly so, and Greg could feel the minutes drag on. Hands shaking, Greg finally sat back up. His head was like a balloon, floating on his shoulders as he calmed back down. Dear god. He hadn’t even been involved in the events. Hadn’t even met Eurus or been threatened. He’d just…. Almost lost everyone he cared for. Fuck. Anxiety and guilt gave way to a boiling need for revenge. For retribution. For something. If he ever saw-

“Gregory.” 

Mycroft. When did he wake up?

“Gregory, look at me.” 

With a short sigh, Gregory managed to turn his head to meet Mycroft’s tired grey eyes. There was nothing protected there, no icy walls like Greg had always remembered. Only vulnerability. Openness. Concern. “Yeah?”

“We’re here.” It wasn’t what Greg had been expecting to hear, but it was what he needed to hear just to get his thoughts back on track. Back where they belonged and not in the muddled water of irrational feelings that made it hard to think around Mycroft.  
“Uh,” Greg stammered, “Yeah, yeah… We are.” Mycroft snorted softly, something warm breaking the exhausted shell he was wearing. “What?”

The worn down man only offered a shrug in reply. Concern still laced his expression, and Greg couldn’t help but wonder at how someone could display so much concern for someone else when they themselves were on the verge of falling apart. Part of him already knew how.

“Alright then.” Shifting his numbed legs, Greg scooted to the door, preparing to get the handle just as the driver opened it. The fresh air that graced his deprived lungs immediately gave Greg a little extra energy. It didn’t, unfortunately, get rid of the pins and needles feeling as Greg stood up. With the ground seeming to tilt under each step, Greg cussed a few times. He really wasn’t used to boats. Or fourteen hour drives north. 

Another sleek black car pulled up behind them as Greg walked to the rear of the car to unload the bags. Sherlock sat in the passenger side, glowering at everything and anything he saw. Someone clearly hadn’t got his beauty sleep sharing the ride with Rosie and John. The thought brought a smirk to Greg’s face, and Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard, Greg was almost convinced they were about to roll out of their sockets. Greg one, Sherlock zero. 

“Maybe instead of annoying my brother, you could help me with the bags, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice had a hint of amusement as he asked for help. There wasn’t any way Greg could say no to that tone.

“Any time, Mycroft.” Greg replied, feeling Sherlock’s stare melting the back of his neck as he turned around to grab the bags from the boot. There was still a lingering sense of unease as he hefted the bags onto his shoulders and headed up behind Mycroft to the house. He could hear Sherlock and John muttering about something and the careful shutting of car doors. Rosie must have been asleep, then. At least that would make moving in easier. 

Mycroft waited for him at the top of the stairs, eyes drifting from the nearby sea to the pair of sleek black cars in the gravel driveway. “I never thought I’d be here again.” He muttered, Greg barely hearing the words while the wind tried to carry them away. 

The door clicked open. Greg wasn’t surprised in the least to see that one of Mycroft’s assistants was already inside. A sweep had likely been done, and the entire house was probably more secure than Buckingham Palace. Before he had a chance to question Mycroft about the casual call back to an earlier visits, Greg was ushered inside and the bags were removed from his arms by the man at the door. He didn’t recognize this one of Mycroft’s team, but Mycroft seemed comfortable around him. That was enough for Greg. 

“Mr. Holmes, your room is on the second floor, left hallway, second door. Mr. Lestrade, your room is on the second floor as well, left hallway, first door.” The man divested Mycroft of his baggage as well, then headed up the stairs without another word.

“Uh, thanks mate.” Greg called after, tugging on his collar and feeling a sensation of being lost settling back in just above his gut. Three days to a week, that’s all this would be. Then whatever was out there would hopefully be solved or would blow over and then they could have their lives back. Or what remained of them. He wasn’t even sure where Sherlock and John were living at the moment. Or what would happen-

John’s voice broke the disturbing chain of thought, “Hey, Greg, you know where our rooms are? I was thinking of putting Rosie down for the rest of her nap.” It was barely a whisper as Sherlock had appeared in the doorway with a sleeping Rosie curled up in his arms, but it still managed to rein in Greg’s attention. 

The sight of Sherlock holding a baby wasn’t something Greg was used to yet. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to it, but Rosie had the lanky detective at her beck and call already. “I’ve no idea, mate. One of Mycroft’s team told us ours and then took our bags up.”

There was a creak of an aged floorboard as the man from earlier started down the stairs. He paused when he saw the sleeping baby cradled protectively in Sherlock’s arms and slowed his descent down the stairs until the damnable things stopped squeaking so loud. “Your rooms, Mr. Watson, Sherlock, are on the third floor. There’s a small kitchen and a bathroom. I can take your bags up.”

“Bags are out in the car.” Sherlock huffed, somehow managing to keep Rosie cradled close enough to him so that his stride up the steps didn’t jostle her awake. John followed after, the faintest of smiles on his lips.

Attention wandering back to the exhausted man near him, Greg caught Mycroft watching Sherlock and John head upstairs. Mycroft had on the oddest expression. It was something between surprise, acceptance and amusement. Maybe with a tinge of frustration. “Something up, Mycroft? You’re looking a little pale.” Greg wondered aloud, eyes searching Mycroft’s.

“They’re…. Working it out.” Mycroft replied with a hesitant mumble, “I was worried, Gregory, that after Sherrinford, after Eurus, that Sherlock might lose John. That they might lose each other and everything else in the process, but I do believe they’ve only managed to find each other.”

A smile moved onto Greg’s lips, “Hey, that’s good. They’re both good for each other. Maybe not everything that came out of that night is bad.”

Mycroft hummed a low note. Greg could’ve shattered the uncertainty in the air with a leaf. It was fragile, and yet it surrounded him whole. “Your panic attack in the car…”

The panic attack? No. Greg’s smile faltered, “Was from thinking I could’ve lost everyone, Mycroft.” Looking around the barren room, Greg sighed, desperately wanting to sit down despite having just gotten out of the car. He was trapped, awkwardly standing between the stairs and Mycroft, “Everyone I care for, everyone I love. I didn’t even know what was going on besides that Baker Street was on fire, Sherlock and John were missing, and goddamn it, no one could contact you either. I didn’t know.” Dragging a hand through hair needed a shower, Greg rolled his lips back as he tried to control the surgeon emotions. He couldn’t even look at Mycroft. “Your brother, John, Rosie, Molly, Mrs. Hudson… You…”

With a huff, Mycroft interjected, “Gregory,”

“Don’t, Mycroft. You’re my family. And to find out in the middle of the night you’d been taken, beaten, tortured… God, Mycroft. I don’t know. I don’t have the words for the way it tore at me, and I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re dealing with.” The knot that had been constricting his chest since the news had broke finally loosened its deadly hold. Greg felt like he could breathe again, if only a little better. 

Mycroft swayed on his feet. “I…” There were a rare handful of times Greg had seen Mycroft speechless. The first time had been when Greg had Mycroft I.D a half dead Sherlock when they’d first met. The second happened after Sherlock’s faked death, and Greg had been ready to drink himself into oblivion when the ring of his doorbell announced Mycroft’s arrival. And the last time Greg had ever seen Mycroft speechless was the night Greg drunkenly announced he was divorced, knowing fell well that Mycroft had something to do with the speedy processing of the papers. 

Greg's heart twisted as Mycroft swayed again. There was no doubt that this conversation was the last thing Mycroft needed at this moment. Determined to see Mycroft start down recovery, Greg knew it all started with the small things. This line of thought could wait until Mycroft could at least stand.

“Mycroft.... You need sleep, and good, decent quality sleep at that. Rosie’s sleeping now, and I’m sure the rest of us will be out for a few hours soon. Come on, let’s get you up to bed.” Greg headed towards the steps. Mycroft followed.


	10. Quiet Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later update than I had hoped, but I think it'll make up for the wait. Thank you all for sticking with me and the fic (20,000 words and 4.5k views later) all this time! You're absolutely lovely. 
> 
> \---------

“Stay.” It was a single word that made Greg pause in the doorway of Mycroft’s room. That one word had so much weight to it in a single moment, that Greg wondered if some rule of physics had been broken. 

He turned to look at Mycroft. They’d silently made their way up the stairs and down to Mycroft’s room without any fumbles, mostly due to Greg’s constant worrying over every step Mycroft took. Mycroft had an air of fragility about him, and Greg worried that one fall might shatter the man. 

Greg frowned a little, confused. Stay wasn’t something he expected to hear. “What?” 

The government man sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed with sagging shoulders. “Sorry, Gregory. Whatever filter I typically possess seems to be failing.” He hesitated. Greg blinked. “I do not wish to be alone, not here, in this house.”

“You’ll explain in the morning?” Concern knotted in Greg’s stomach at the distant gaze that haunted Mycroft’s eyes. The only answer he got was a nod, then silence as Mycroft unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat. It was like watching a knight remove his armor. Greg couldn’t picture Mycroft as Mycroft without it, and as Mycroft set the suit pieces neatly aside, Greg wondered if he was even seeing the same person as before. Bewildered, Greg shrugged out of his overshirt, folding it and placing it on the top of a dresser. By the time he’d done this, Mycroft had turned over on the bed and tucked under the covers. 

“Sleep well, Mycroft. God knows you deserve it.” Greg murmured, taking a spot in the chair near the window as Mycroft started to snore. He curled up in that chair as much as an aging DCI could while having a flashback to his uni days when he had crashed wherever he could manage after long nights out. Cracking a little smile, Greg felt sleep tugging him under as the distant noise of the water breaking on shore and the not so distant snoring from a certain someone filled the air. 

\------------------------------------- 

Waking up was painful. Greg’s neck protested against moving as he stirred in the unbearable chair. He’d clearly slept on it wrong, and now a ruthless knot had formed that made it difficult to even lift or turn his head. God damn it. 

With a wince, Greg uncurled himself from the chair, somehow managing a stretch as his aging body felt on the verge of falling apart, and stood quietly.

Mycroft was still asleep, as the loud, constant snores announced. For once, Greg noted, Mycroft didn’t appear to be stressed in his sleep. He actually looked relaxed, and at ease, as someone asleep should look. It was a step in the right direction. Greg just hoped it continued and that this wasn’t only because of how worn Mycroft had been. 

Orange light streamed around the curtain’s edges. Without a clock or watch nearby, Greg couldn’t be certain of the time but given the kinks and knots in his muscles from sleeping in that damnable chair, he’d easily put them at sleeping the better part of an entire day. Pausing to listen for any activity upstairs or downstairs, Greg didn’t hear a single creak or shuffle of feet on the floor. There wasn’t any noise from upstairs. Granted, he was listening over Mycroft’s snoring, but everything else was peacefully quiet besides. Thank god for that too. Sherlock and John needed any sleep they could get with Rosie. He wasn’t really surprised to hear nothing else. 

Stepping softly across the floorboards and avoiding any areas that sank too much under the first testing step, Greg made his way to the door with only a few protesting creaks from the old flooring. He opened the door just as carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb Mycroft’s needed rest, or anyone else’s for that matter. 

His stomach, however, was not as kind. It let out a long, gurgling growl that brought pause to even Mycroft’s snore. The hunger pains twisted up into his throat as Greg made his way down the stairs. Pausing halfway down to mumble cusses at his discontenting stomach, the DI finally managed to trudge carefully to the kitchen. There was no doubt that there was food here. Mycroft always thought of everything, and Anthea knew how to make sure even the smallest details were covered. It was less of a matter of if there was food than it was how long would it take to make said food. 

The churning unease of his hungry stomach made Greg’s head pound. Something quick for now, and he could cook something up later for the rest of the house. He at least had to make sure he wouldn’t pass out. It had been a while since his last full meal, and his body had roughed it out the last few days. 

Reaching into the cupboards and scrounging around through the various boxes of tea, rice, and so on, Greg realized that they had a suspiciously large amount of food. Maybe it was thinking ahead to the worse case scenario, or maybe Anthea had tried to cover Sherlock’s pickiness and experimental impulses. Either way, Greg’s pained expression turned to one of childish joy as he spotted a box of Lucky Charms sitting there. Things might have gone to shit, but even at the worst times there was almost always something good to be found. Even if it was in the shape of a box with sugary and cheaply colored cereal bits. 

A bowl took a few more minutes of digging around to find. By then, Greg’s stomach was making noises that he wasn’t sure a part of the human body should be making, and he hurried to grab the milk and fill the bowl to the brim like an overexcited child might have. 

He didn’t even hesitate to dig in. Barely pausing to breathe as he ate, Greg zoned out for a little while. It wasn’t until the spoon clattered against the bottom of the empty bowl with a blood churning screech that Greg snapped out of the hazy state he was in. “Well. That’s done, I suppose.” Greg muttered. He picked up the bowl with a tired yet satisfied sigh and glanced out the window above the sink as he started to rinse it out.

The sun was just starting to crest over the ocean. It was beautiful. Not something he’d see in London, for sure. Not that Greg would trade living in London for hiding out on an island, but he couldn’t go wrong with a view like this one. The bowl sat in the warm, sudsy water while Greg basked in the view for a little longer. 

“Gregory?” God damn. How the hell was Mycroft always so quiet? Did he just float everywhere instead of walking?

Turning around, Greg saw a well rested Mycroft standing at the base of the stairs. He was still in pajamas, and had a sag to his posture. “Morning. Hungry?”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped up at the mention of food. “Starving.”

“Good. Sit, Mycroft. I’ll cook something up.” Stepping way from the sink, Greg headed to the fridge to grab something for a quick, but hopefully decent, breakfast. “ Was going to earlier, but no one else was up yet.” 

A chair scrapped on the floor as Mycroft took a seat. Feeling the burn of Mycroft’s sharp eyes on him as he grabbed ingredients for breakfast, Greg cleared his throat. There was an audible sigh, “You stayed last night.” Greg froze. “Did you sleep alright?”

Setting the eggs and vegetables on the counter, Greg glanced over his shoulder at the question. It wasn’t what he was expecting to be asked. “I slept alright, yeah. Bloody chair’s uncomfortable, but I managed.”

Mycroft nodded, suppressing a yawn, “Good. I didn’t want to impose anything on you, but I’m glad you were able to sleep.” The man hesitated before continuing, “This house does not have the most pleasant memories associated with it, and I… I needed some company last night. You see-“

Greg cracked the first egg into a bowl, “Mycroft, you don’t need to explain everything to me if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” Mycroft replied steadily. His grey eyes met Greg’s, “This was the first safe house I stayed in after a… job went sour.” His face contorted into something unreadable as he glanced down at the tiles on the flooring. “I spent three weeks here, alone, dreading my return to London. It was not a vacation by any means, and now another set of unfortunate events have brought me back. I’m not alone this time, however.”

“You’re not alone, no. You’ve got John, Sherlock, me, Rosie, and whatever underlings you’ve got housed around here.” Whipping the eggs, Greg watched with relief as Mycroft looked back up to meet his gaze, “And you’re not a burden or anything, Mycroft. You’re our friend, and Sherlock’s brother. But anyways, thank you for telling me.”

Another honest smile cracked on Mycroft’s tired lips, “I… Appreciate that more than I can express. You are a good friend, Lestrade.”

“It’s early for formalities, Mycroft.” Greg teased, throwing a grin over his shoulder as he finished whipping up the eggs. He started the cook top up, hearing an amused snort from the table. 

“Alright, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” Came the retort from the other.

Greg could hear the warm snark in Mycroft’s voice. Damnable man. Suppressing a chuckle to keep the banter going, Greg spread out the pan on the cook top to heat up while he chopped and diced a few veggies. “What does Mr. Holmes request for his omelette this wonderful Tuesday morning?” His mock stiff tone and formal inflection on the word ‘omelette’ earned him a soft chuckle from Mycroft.

“Peppers, onions, tomatoes, and cheese, if you would kind sir.” Mycroft replied, the warmth lingering even when he tried to use a posh and cold tone. 

“Coming right up.” The next few minutes passed in familiar silence that neither seemed inclined to break. All that could be heard was the sizzling of the pan and the cutting of the vegetables. Greg carefully spread the whipped egg over the hot pan, and the mouth watering smell of breakfast began to fill the air. He heard Mycroft sigh but it wasn’t the kind of sigh that sounded weighed down. It sounded relaxed and at ease, something that made Greg smile a little bit more. 

A few minutes later and the vegetables had been tossed in, followed by the cheese. By now, Greg could nearly hear Mycroft’s stomach rumbling, and he set out a plate in preparation. As soon as the edges started to brown and the air was filled with an aroma that Greg thought might have even enticed Sherlock down to eat, Greg folded the omelette up masterfully and moved it to the plate. Grabbing a fork and knife, Greg brought the plate over to Mycroft and took a seat next to him. “You’re going to have to tell me if it’s alright.” 

It was only then as Mycroft began to dig into the omelette that Greg realized he’d committed a treachery most foul. “Damn, I forgot the tea…” He went to stand, knowing no reasonable breakfast could be served without a hot cup of tea, only to have a hand lightly rest on his elbow and guide him back down to sit. Everything was warm about Mycroft. 

“Don’t fret over it, Gregory. You’ve already cooked breakfast, and if I throw a cup into the microwave, I’m sure no one will be none the wiser. Putting a kettle on could wake Rosie when it boils, and that’s not something I’d wish to cause.” Offering a slight smile, Mycroft returned to eating.

Dumbstruck for a moment or two, Gregory stayed seated and waited for Mycroft’s verdict on the omelette. 

The reply had subtly reminded Greg that despite knowing Mycroft for over a decade now because of Sherlock, he actually knew very little about the other man. What was with that ring, for starters? Had Mycroft ever been married? What exactly did the man do for a job? It certainly wasn’t bloody traffic, or whatever was the newest cover. Sure, they’d met plenty of times before the recent Sherrinford disaster, but they only occasionally strayed into personal territory. But now, with a quiet house and a long few days with the Holmes brothers, John, and Rosie for company, Greg felt the need to know more. To understand Mycroft. But why? 

Mycroft let out a soft noise like a hum. “Don’t get lost in unfamiliar territory, Gregory.” 

“Hm?” Greg’s attention jumped back to the table and Mycroft, “I was thinking.”

A glint of something unfamiliar rose in Mycroft’s eyes, “Exactly.” He murmured. His smile shifted to something warm and friendly, and Mycroft set his silverware down on the edges of the empty plate, “My compliments to the chef. It was an artistic marvel.”

“What do- Oh. Thank you.” Greg had been too caught up in trying to decipher the cryptic light that had shone in Mycroft’s eyes to notice the compliment until a few drawn out moments later. He fell silent, Mycroft grinning – that bloody bastard – at him expectantly. The moment was marked by several hammering heartbeats before it dawned on Greg what Mycroft had meant, “You cheeky-“

“Yes?” 

“Oh, nevermind.” Rolling his eyes with a snort, Greg folded his arms on the tabletop and glanced out the window again.

Something shifted between them like a fault line during an earthquake. Neither had seen it coming, but both felt it the moment it happened as if the floor had literally shaken beneath them and shifted the ground they stood on. The mood of their conversation faltered. Greg glanced to Mycroft, who he found was intently staring at him. An aftershake had the hair on the back of Greg’s neck stand on end. There was an expression Greg had sworn he’d never seen, and thought he never see, on Mycroft’s face that was clearly terrified. The terror subsided, and Greg’s stomach churned nervously as the expressive face went blank. Mycroft cleared his throat. 

“I always used to tell Sherlock caring was not an advantage when we were children.” Mycroft began uncertainly, “I was wrong.” Greg inhaled as his throat tightened. “You’ve… proven me quite wrong, Gregory.”

“I… I have?” Greg wasn’t sure how to make heads or tails of what was being said. He always felt two steps behind Sherlock, but Mycroft sometimes made him feel like he was several kilometers behind. “What do you mean by that, Mycroft?”

Mycroft gently slid the plate a little further away from him as he turned away from Greg for only a moment. “Let me show you.” 

Before Greg could form a reply or even make sense of what Mycroft was doing, Mycroft had already leaned towards him, and wrapped his arms loosely around Greg’s shoulders. “Thank you.” The two words were brief and heavy. It was as if Mycroft had been letting out the weight that had settled on his shoulders over the past few days, or perhaps even longer, finally fall off. Greg sighed softly, and leaned back.

Two stories up, the shrill cry of a hungry child filled the air.

Neither of the men in the kitchen moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you all think of it so far? Is it promising? Getting a little dull? (I promise I have something for the dullness- My guilty pleasure is writing tooth rotting fluff sometimes.) Let me know! ;u;


	11. This moment ; change is everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my holiday gift to you all. Thought this might ease the pain of the FCC's vote earlier today. Also, if you'd like to know what this chapter was inspired by you should look up 'Change is Everything' by Son Lux:
> 
> 'This moment changes everything  
> The course of blood within your veins  
> A stranger's form, your skeleton  
> See the bones glow as they break free'

“Mycroft?” Something was clawing its way through Greg’s chest with red hot talons. The intense pain grew stronger as Mycroft remained buried against Greg’s front. Mycroft’s breath passed along Greg’s skin, warm and steady. It sent a tingle across Greg’s skin.

“Yes, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was delicate and small.

Greg’s hands were moving in circles on Mycroft’s back of their accord. The heat of Mycroft’s body was soaking into the palm of Greg’s hands in a way that Greg found soothing and grounding. It wasn’t something he’d felt for a long while, and he was reluctant to break the contact, “I… I don’t think we should stay like this when your brother and John come down.”

There was a sigh from Mycroft that stirred the hair along the back of Greg’s head, “You are right. We should head upstairs. I believe there are a few matters at hand that should be discussed between you and I.” Was that the infamous ‘we need to talk’ line coming from Mycroft Holmes in his own selection of words? Greg was sure it was, yet the way Mycroft was still clinging to him like a cat holding onto a branch in a flood had Greg convinced that their following conversation wouldn’t follow the negative tones that the ‘we need to talk’ typically would. Something soft and fragile had grown between them. Neither seemed willing to damage or harm whatever this delicate thing was. 

“I’ll follow you up. I don’t mind if it’s my room or yours or whatever other room is up there, as long as you feel comfortable.” Greg murmured back. His arms unwound from Mycroft and he sat back, watching with interest as Mycroft tried his best to compose himself. It failed, of course. There was only so much composing one could do when they’d rode a day in a car and slept nearly as long without a shower or a meal. 

“Thank you. Come along now, Gregory.” Mycroft stood up, pushing the chair in quietly behind him. Greg did the same and tagged behind Mycroft as they left the kitchen together. 

The stairs were quiet under their steps. Not even a creak or a groan echoed up the narrow corridor that lead to the first floor, and Greg found himself silently praying that Sherlock wasn’t about to come bounding down from the second floor with John and Rosie hot on his heels. Mycroft was as quiet as the stairs as they made their way up. The only noise Greg could hear was the rushing of his own blood in his ears as the nerves pricked along the back of his throat and along his neck in a heated rush. 

As they stepped onto the first floor, the noise of quiet muttering a floor up could be heard. Someone was comforting Rosie up above. Soft, easy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and an exhausted John gazed at Greg and Mycroft for only a moment before slipping by them to head to the ground floor with Rosie bundled in his arms. 

Greg glanced to Mycroft. A shrug was offered in explanation to an unspoken question. Mycroft continued down the hallway with Greg behind him. The lingering nervousness flared up as soon as Mycroft’s hand went to the knob on his room’s door, and Greg swallowed only to find his throat and mouth dry. Whatever precipice they’d been standing at the edge for years, they now found themselves teetering just centimeters from plummeting over it. Wherever that would take them. A pair of unreadable grey eyes met Greg’s. 

With a creak that sent a tremble down Greg’s neck, Mycroft opened the door. The bed had been made, yet the chair where Greg had spent the night was still creased faintly in the shape of the aging DI’s uneasy sleep. The air grew thick when Mycroft took a seat on the bed with enough room to his side for Greg to sit down as well.

“May I?” Greg asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure anymore if Mycroft did such things intentionally or not. Whatever walls Mycroft had worked years to maintain were crumbling down in a matter of a few stressful days. It left Greg wary of overstepping any boundaries or lines that he wasn’t aware of.

Mycroft answered with a subtle nod. “Of course, Gregory.” 

Greg’s eyes immediately saw Mycroft’s hands clenching and trembling on the duvet. “Hey,” His voice soft, Greg reached over and placed his hands over Mycroft’s, “Hey… Mycroft, I’m here.” The hands, warm and tense under his, eased to a relaxed state as Mycroft let out a long sigh that sounded like it had been pulled from the center of his chest. 

That very sigh seemed to release all of Mycroft’s tension. He slumped sideways, leaning into Greg’s shoulder. “It has been a very long time since I’ve not only felt comfortable enough to let down these walls I spent decades putting up, but also since I’ve been aware of my own humanity.” There was a pause, and Mycroft’s hands turned in Greg’s. Carefully, Mycroft laced their fingers together as if seeking a grounding point. Greg’s stomach dropped. The warmth soaked through his skin with startling ease. “Sherrinford,” Mycroft continued with a shaking voice, “Reminded me of my own mortality. Of how fragile and fleeting everything is. Of how ridiculously isolated I’ve made myself. I could have died there, on some god forsaken island and barely anyone would have been upset to hear of my passing.” Words rose in Greg’s throat and pushed at his tongue, but the gentle squeeze from Mycroft’s hand stopped him from speaking. Now wasn’t the time. Not yet. “Yes, my job does require a certain degree of isolation and privacy due to the risks, but I have taken it to extremes. The nickname the Iceman is fitting for a reason. Sherlock and I both bury ourselves in our work. However, Sherlock realized not too long ago that there were more important things in this world than the world, even if he is afraid of admitting that aloud.”

“John. Rosie.” 

Mycroft nodded, “Indeed.” Another pause followed. Mycroft’s head was heavy on Greg’s shoulder, “I’ll be honest, this is not the best time for baring emotions such as these, but after what transpired on that island, I feel I will be damned if I do not.”

“I’m not-“ Dry mouthed, Greg glanced over to the other with concern flooding over him, “I’m not making you admit anything, Mycroft. The last few days have been difficult…”

There was a hiss of air from Mycroft’s nose. Greg couldn’t tell if it was from annoyance, frustration, or something else. It sounded pained. “I’m aware. However, I am an adult and I am capable of making my own decisions. I have been through hell and back, and I am tired, Gregory. Tired of isolation and the silence it brings. I saw how well you helped Sherlock, how you picked him up every time he fell despite whatever he would drag you through… You were always there throughout the years. And even now, you’re here.” Another characteristic pause that seemed heavier than lead settled into the air. “Why?”

“Why?” The question left Gregory feeling gutted.   
“Yes, why. Why do you put yourself through dealing with us Holmes? What have we ever done for you in return? You’ve dragged Sherlock out of drug dens, you’ve gone to Dartmore and further for me. You’ve handed over cases without another word after I’ve walked out of your office. You’ve put up with us for years, Gregory. Why?” Mycroft’s words grew more frantic as he continued. His body had a shiver to it that shook Greg’s shoulder slightly, and Greg felt his stomach churn as his nerves flared up again. It was the same question he’d asked himself time and time again all those years ago, but the number of times he’d asked it dropped as the years passed. The very question Mycroft asked echoed and bounced around in Greg’s thoughts for a heartbeat.

Greg gave Mycroft’s hand a squeeze as he tried to comfort the other, “You want to know why? It’s really quite simple, honestly.” An uncertain smile broke over his lips as he began, “At first, I asked myself the same thing. The situations Sherlock got into, they were ridiculous, Mycroft. Yeah, he was helpful with cases, but we could’ve solved them on our own, or at least I like to think we could’ve.” With a faint chuckle, Greg continued, “But I cared about him. He helped us, and I helped him, and it went from there. He’s like a little brother to me sometimes. A very annoying, stubborn, occasionally fanatical brother, but anyways, he’s important to me.” He could feel Mycroft’s piercing eyes studying every little movement of his face, every twitch and line of the emotions that passed over it. Breathing in deep, Greg continued, “But that doesn’t answer everything, does it?” His thumb absentmindedly stroked lazy circles along the back of Mycroft’s hand. “Sherlock’s Sherlock. You, however, are a bit of a different story. That first time we met when Sherlock was completely out of it, I knew just from looking at you that you were someone to remember. I knew I’d see you again. You had this air about you. Refined, powerful, but deadly quiet. You didn’t need to shout to silence the scene. I was, for lack of a better word, captivated. So, whenever you’d come around, I wanted to know more. At first it was just understanding how you could be so dignified despite being related to Sherlock. Then, it turned into something more. A frustrated need to know, when I knew I never could. But, even then, I could see the cracks grow the longer I knew you. My mum always called me a bleeding heart. She was right. I cared about you even though I barely knew you when we first met. It’s been years now, though, Mycroft, and I consider you a close friend. “

“You wanted to know me?” Mycroft’s voice was incredulous. 

“Yeah, ‘course.” The circles on the back of Mycroft’s hand continued, “It was clear how much you cared about Sherlock, your job, the country… But I had a feeling that there weren’t many people who cared for you as much. No one should be alone, Mycroft. That’s why I’m here. You shouldn’t have to go through this alone, no one should.”

The weight on his shoulder grew as Mycroft settled. Greg looked down, and saw that Mycroft’s eyes were closed tightly with the skin around his nose crunched up as if fighting a cry. “Hey, you alright?” The question smoothed Mycroft’s face over. 

“Mhm.” The hum was a positive answer, “Emotional.” 

Mycroft’s hand was tightly holding onto Greg’s now. Carefully, Greg shifted to the side to cradle Mycroft into his chest, “That’s alright. I’m here. You’re safe.”

“I thought I was going to die. I nearly did. I have blood on my hands, Gregory.” Mycroft blurted out. His free hand clutched at Greg’s shirt in a balled-up fist that held Greg close. “I shot a man.”

Heart stammering in his chest like a drum, Greg stilled as Mycroft tucked his head against his chest. “It wasn’t your fault, Mycroft. I know a little of what happened, and I know your crazy sister had you three under her thumb.” He paused, wrapping his free arm around Mycroft’s shoulder to help ground the man. This wasn’t how he’d seen their conversation going but he could feel Mycroft’s need to simply talk in every little motion and word the man said. And Greg was more than okay with being Mycroft’s rock. “Have you considered any support services? A therapist, or something? I’m here, but I’m not professional help.”

Feeling Mycroft nod, Greg hummed a quiet approval. “Good. You’ve always got John, Sherlock, and I, but I do think you could benefit from some professional support as well. What you went through… God, Mycroft. I’m so sorry. “Greg’s shirt felt damp against his skin. He tilted his chin down just enough to see that Mycroft had his eyes closed while shiny tracks of tears traced delicate lines down his cheeks and onto discolored patches forming on Greg’s shirt. With a strained noise Greg held Mycroft tight.

“I’ve got you, My.” The murmur was light. Mycroft’s grip tightened on his shirt and Greg didn’t budge an inch as the only marker of time was Greg’s heartbeat echoing Mycroft’s. With the curtains closed and the clock out of sight, Greg soon lost track of time. It didn’t matter, not really. He felt Mycroft’s body relax finally as if Mycroft was finally letting the weight that had settled onto his shoulders go for just a moment. The tear soaked patches had grown considerably yet it was just another neutral observation that Greg found himself unconcerned with. Mycroft’s breathing had slowed as well. It had dimmed down to a subtle ghosting of warm breath over the crook of Greg’s neck. Greg peered down at the man protectively wrapped up in his arms as an itch of concern rose. What if Mycroft was having an anxiety attack, or something far-

“Ah. Sleeping.” Gregory whispered fondly when he caught sight of Mycroft’s relaxed expression. He ran his hand up and down Mycroft’s back in long, lazy circles, letting his thoughts slowly move as his hand did. This man. This miraculous man who somehow managed to keep a country together while keeping his bugger of a brother from falling off the deep end had finally let down the walls he’d guarded so religiously over the past decade or so. It was a stressful time, and Greg couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to whatever this thing between them was once they returned to London. Sure, they’d been decent, supportive friends before this, but… After was always the roughest thing. Greg wasn’t even sure how stable-

“You’re lost in unfamiliar territory again, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was a ragged, sore sounding rumble that rose sluggishly. He sounded half asleep.

Attention drawn down to the mop of red hair tucked up against his chest, Greg paused with his hand along Mycroft’s back, “I’m thinking, ‘at’s all.” He blinked, feeling the nagging doubts constricting around his neck.

There was a mumbling noise from Mycroft, “Mm… My point. I can hear your heart racing, Gregory. Did you forget where my ear was?” The man shifted in Greg’s arms to glance up at Greg with sleep glazed eyes that still somehow managed to be sharper than a tack. 

“Ah… No.” Greg stammered. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. Mycroft lifted an eyebrow questioningly. “Yes. I did.”

“You were bothered by the idea of something. Concerned?”

“Thinking about the after.” Greg answered quietly. His hand had settled onto the small of Mycroft’s back and he could feel the heat soaking in to the bone. “What comes after all this. Do we just go back to before? Do we build on whatever this is? I… I’m a bit afraid, Mycroft. Afraid of loosing you, or Sherlock, or John, Molly…. It’s been a tough fucking year for all of us. What comes after?”

A gap between heartbeats was all it took for Mycroft to reply, “What comes after is up to us. You’ll not loose me, Gregory. Or Sherlock, John, Molly… We’ve had enough loss.” Something uncertain crouched in Mycroft’s expression before he continued, “And this. Us. I am aware that making emotional choices during a time such as this may not be the most intelligent idea, however, I am also aware that I’ve pined after you for longer than I care to admit. I have always held others at arm’s length, afraid for myself and them.” He shook his head, “I am done doing that. I have not had the chance to live a life, to share a moment with another like this. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to say that I’d like a chance with you, but-“

Greg tilted his head. His heart danced in his chest like a hypnotized performer moving to a fast song. Lips parting, he leaned forwards, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s, “Mycroft. My.” He murmured gently. Mycroft’s eyes darted to Greg’s lips then up to Greg’s eyes. _There you go, My, think it over. You’ve got this._ It was visible the second Mycroft realized what was about to happen. Greg could hear him exhale sharply. This puff of air tickled Greg’s throat. “My, your choice. I’m not going to push anything.”

Mycroft let out a strangled whimper. His hand clutched at Greg’s shirt before he tugged the DI down to close those last few centimeters. 

One singular thought burned in the back of Greg’s mind as Mycroft’s soft lips pushed against his own. _Finally._ Years of tension ended with a single motion. He sighed into the kiss, slumping forwards as Mycroft took control of the kiss. It was chaste, but Greg would be damned if it wasn’t overwhelming him. Feeling Mycroft’s lips graze his for a second time caused Greg to stammer out a little noise that got caught in his throat. His hand moved up Mycroft’s back to tangle into the mop of hair at the lower part of Mycroft’s neck and the hand holding Mycroft’s held it tightly, not wanting to let go. Greg’s throat felt tight, and his entire body felt like it’d been shocked, as Mycroft continued to lightly kiss him. It took Greg a moment to realize exactly why Mycroft wasn’t pushing further, but it wasn’t until Mycroft’s lips moved just slightly off center that Greg was struck by the fact that Mycroft had to be memorizing this. Every little contact was being stored away into that brilliant brain. The thought alone sent a jolt through racing under Greg’s skin. He could smell the lemon tang of Mycroft’s shampoo mixing with the musky scent of sweat and sleep clinging to Mycroft’s skin. 

“My…” Greg gasped, hearing the faint rasp of lips over the stubble of his jaw as Mycroft moved his attentions along. His skin felt heated. Even breathing was difficult now. “Mycroft…”

A soft noise of acknowledgement could be heard. The kisses paused, and Mycroft looked dazed as he met Greg’s gaze, “Hm?" Dazed wasn’t the only emotion in Mycroft’s eyes, however. Greg easily spotted something akin to joy and excitement. It made him feel dizzy. 

The pause gave Greg a chance to shift on the bed. He leaned back, taking care about the man half situated on him already. “C’mere.” Wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, he brought the man down onto the bed’s surface with him, and laid down alongside Mycroft with a relieved sigh. Mycroft didn’t hesitate to curl up close, burying his face into the crook of Greg’s neck again. “Hello.” With a dopey smile that he could feel radiating through his veins, Greg tucked Mycroft against his torso.

Mycroft chuckled, “Hello, Gregory.” The exhaustion still carved grooves into Mycroft’s expressions, and the weariness of the days and their events weighed down his shoulders, but Greg could see it lift. It was like watching the sun come out after a day’s storm. He could feel it warming along his skin. He could smell the hint of a new day, a new promise. 

Somewhere distant, a phone rang off unanswered once. Twice. And fell to the carpeted floor. A message popped onscreen and went unread by its owner. 

‘We have a lead.’ Mols.


	12. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a true chapter.

I'm sorry for the long hiatus this took without warning. The last month and a half have been extraordinarily chaotic (two deaths in the family, some serious health issues with family members, and school issues with staying enrolled due to monetary reasons.) I will be updating later this week, life willing. I will finish this, I promise!


End file.
